Gift   of 
H.L,    Colestock 


rrom  JOINS' 


.  .  .  stepping  there,  zvith  face  toward  the  sun. 

Stopped  seldom  to  pluck  weeds  or  ask  their  7iames.  —  Browning. 


FROM 


MILTON  TO  TENNYSON 


MASTERPIECES  OF  ENGLISH   POETRY 


EDITED    WITH 
NOTES    DESCRIPTIVE    AND    CRITICAL 

BY 

L   DuPONT   SYLE,  M. a.  (YALE) 

Associate  Professor  of  English   Literature  in  the  University 
OF  California 


iSoston 

ALLYN     AND     BACON 

AND  CHICAGO 


Copyright,  TS94 
By    L.    D.    S  5f  LE 


^Kmpfon  ?Pr«B 

H.  M.   PLIMPTON  i  CO.,   PRINTERS  A  BINDERS, 
NORWOOD,   MASS  ,  US. A. 


^ 


c^ 


SODALIVM    VALEDICTORI    YALENSIVM 

ANNI    MDCCCLXXIX 

iLlogtr  Smtcaton  Bolters 

Studenti  Doctissimo 

Condiscipulo  Fidelissitno 

Aniico  Const antissitno 


AMICITIAE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/frommiltontotennOOsyle 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Foreword ix 

MILTON. 

L' Allegro i 

11.  Penseroso       ..........  5 

LYCIDAS ID 

On  Shakespeare         . 15 

On  his  having  Arrived  at  XHt  Age  of  Twenty-three        .  16 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 16 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 17 

On  His  Blindness 17 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 18 

DRYDEN. 

To  MY  DEAR  Friend,  Mr.  Congreve 19 

Alexander's  Feast 21 

The  Character  of  a  Good  P'^.rson 27 

POPE. 

Epistle  to  Mr.  Jervas 31 

Epistle  to  Richard  Boyle,  Earl  of  Burlington  ...  33 

Epistle  to  Augustus 38 

THOMSON. 

Winter 50 

JOHNSON. 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 61 

GRAY. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard     .        .        .        .  71 

The  Bard .        ....  75 


CONTENTS. 


GOLDSMITH. 


The  Deserted  Village 


COWPER. 
The  Winter  Morning  Walk     . 


PAGE 

80 


92 


BURNS. 


The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 

Tam  o'  Shanter 

To  a  Mouse 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 

Bannockburn 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 

For  a'  That  and  a'  That 


97 
103 
109 
no 
1 12 
"3 
113 


COLERIDGE. 
The  Ancient  Mariner 115 


[Modern  Greece]     . 

[Venice]    .... 

[Cascata  del  Marmore] 

[The  Coliseum] 

[The  Coliseum  by  Moonlight] 

[St.  Peter's]    . 

[The  Ocean]     . 

[The  Isles  ok  Greece]    . 

She  Walks  in  Beauty     . 


BYRON. 

From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  ii. 


Manfred,  Act  iii.,  Sc.  4. 
Childe  Harold,   Canto  iv. 

"  "  "     iv. 

Don  Juan,  "     iii. 

The  Hebrew  Melodies 


Song  of  Saul  before  his  Last  Battle      " 

KEATS. 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  .... 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale  .... 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

SHELLEY. 

Lines  Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills 
The  Cloud 


To  a  Skylark 
Sonnet. — To  the  Nile 
Sonnet.  —  Ozymandias 


135 
138 
142 

143 
145 
146 
149 
152 
155 
155 


156 
168 
171 


172 
182 
184 
188 
188 


CONTENTS. 

vii 

WORDSWORTH.                                         page 

To  A  Highland  Girl 

189 

To  A  Sky-Lark  . 

191 

To  THE  Cuckoo  . 

.         0         .         .         . 

192 

TiNTERN  Abbey  . 

193 

Laodamia     . 

197 

Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality 

202 

J^  Ode  to  Duty 

208 

Sonnet.  —  To  Milton 

. 

210 

MACAULAY. 

HORATIUS 211 

CLOUGH. 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 230 

Mari  Magno,  or  Tales  on  Board  [Prologue]  ....  231 

The  Lawyer's  First  Tale 233 

[Sometimes  called  "The  Clergyman's  First  Tale."] 


d^, 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 


5jie  Scholar-Gipsy 241 

The  Forsaken  Merman .     248 

BROWNING. 

A  Transcript  from  Euripides 253 

[From  "  Balaustion's  Adventure."] 


TENNYSON. 

OiNONE 275 

The  Miller's  Daughter 282 


The  Passing  of  Arthur     .... 
The  Splendor  Falls  .... 

Home  they  Brought  her  Warrior  Dead 
Break,  Break,  Break        .... 

The  Brook  

Crossing  the  Bar       .        .        .        .        , 


289 
302 

303 
304 
304 
306 


A    separate    Table    of   Contents    is    provided    foi 
The   Notes. 


FOREWORD. 


T^HOUGH  intended  primarily  for  High  Schools,  it  is  hoped 
-*-       that  this  little  book  may  prove  not  useless   in  College 
classes  that  pursue  a  sketch  —  or  outline  —  course  in  English 
Literature. 

To  the  High  School  teacher  the  following  explanations  may 
be  useful : 

1.  The  short  Biographies  are  intended  as  mere  outlines 
which  the  pupil,  if  time  allow,  shall  fill  in  from  his  reading  of 
larger  worko.  These  works  are  indicated  in  the  Bibliography, 
under  the  heading  Life  and  Times. 

2.  The  Bibliography  of  Criticism,  it  is  hoped,  will  assist 
the  teacher  in  his  search  for  the  best  that  has  been  thought 
and  said  upon  the  poet  whom  his  class  is  studying.  Perhaps 
advanced  pupils  also  can  use  some  portion  of  this  Bibliog- 
raphy with  profit,  but  if  they  have  spare  time,  I  should  en- 
courage them  to  read  more  extensively  in  the  works  of  the 
poet  himself  rather  than  in  the  works  of  those  who  have  writ- 
ten about  him. 

3.  The  reference  library,  placed  where  the  pupil  can  con- 
sult it  daily,  should  contain  : 

i.  Books  for  which  there  are  no  equivalents :  Pope's 
Translation  of  the  Iliad ;  Lang,  Leaf  and  Myer's  Translation 
of  the  Iliad;  Palmer's  Translation  of  the  Odyssey;  Dryden's 
and  Conington's  Translations  of  the  /Eneid ;  The  Century 
Dictionary. 

ii.  The  following  books  or  their  equivalents  :  Lippincott's 
Biographical  Dictionary;  Lippincott's  Gazetteer;  Smith's 
Smaller  Classical  Dictionary;  Rich's  Dictionary  of  Greek  and 
Roman  Antiquities ;  Gayley's  Classic  Myths  in  English  Litera- 
ture ;  Ginn's  Classical  Atlas ;  Brewer's  Dictionary  of  Phrase 


FORE  WORD. 


and  Fable ;  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People ; 
McCarthy's  History  of  Our  Own  Times  ;  Skeat's  Etymological 
Dictionary  (Student's  edition)  ;  Whitney's  Essentials  of  Eng- 
lish Grammar ;  Bain's  Rhetoric  (new  edition  in  2  vols.)  ; 
Hales'  Longer  English  Poems ;  The  English  Men  of  Letters 
Series. 

4.  The  principles  of  Metrics  will  be  found  laid  down  in 
Abbott  &  Seelye's  English  Lessons  for  English  People,  and  in 
Gummere's  Poetics.  It  has  been  thought  unnecessary,  there- 
fore, to  give  such  information  in  the  notes. 

5.  Exigencies  of  space  have  compelled  me  reluctantly  to 
omit  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake  from  the  place  it  should  ha\'e 
occupied  in  this  book.  This  defect  the  student  should 
remedy  by  reading  that  poem  in  the  excellent  edition  of  Pro- 
fessor W.  J.  Rolfe. 

Grateful  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  following  gentle- 
men :  To  Professor  C.  M.  Gayley  of  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia for  constant  advice  and  valuable  criticism  upon  the 
treatment  of  all  poets  represented  in  this  book ;  to  Professor 
W.  D.  Whitney  of  Yale  University  for  permission  to  draw 
freely  for  definitions  upon  the  Century  Dictionary ;  to  Pro- 
fessor H.  A.  Beers  of  Yale  University  for  helpful  suggestion 
embodied  in  the  notes  on  Milton,  Dryden  and  Pope  ;  to  Pro- 
fessor A.  F.  Lange  of  the  University  of  California  for  similar 
suggestions  in  the  notes  on  Milton ;  to  Professor  J.  C.  Rolfe 
of  the  University  of  Michigan  for  permission  to  condense  in- 
formation on  certain  points  from  his  scholarly  and  exhaustive 
edition  of  Macaulay's  Lays  ;  to  Professor  C.  B.  Bradley  of  the 
LTniversity  of  California  for  advice  in  the  selection  of  the 
extracts  from  Burns  and  Browning;  to  Professor  Isaac  Flagg 
of  the  University  of  California  for  the  happy  Latin  phrasing 
he  has  given  to  the  thought  of  the  editor's  inscription. 

Berkeley,  Calikornia, 

March  15, 1894. 


MILTON 


L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnipnt  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  ?nd  sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-raven    sings ; 

There,  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.  lo 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 

With  two  sister  Graces  more,  15 

To  ivy-crowned   Bacchus  bore : 
Or  whether   (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring. 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There,   on  beds  of  violets  blue. 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,   nymph,   and  bring  with  thee  25 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods  and   Becks  and  wreathed   Smiles, 


MIL  TON. 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee  35 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due. 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ;  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And,  singing,   startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come,   in  spite  of  sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window   bid  good-morrow. 

Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine  ; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin ;  50 

And  to  the  stack,   or  the  barn-door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  55 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometime  walking,   not  unseen, 

By  hedgerow  elms,   on  liillocks  green. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries   dight ; 

Wliilc   tlie  ploughman,    near  at  liand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth   blithe,  65 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 


VALLEGRO. 


Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale.  _ 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

Whilst  the  landskip   round  it  measures :  70 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  grey. 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied ;  75 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  ag6d  oaks. 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste   her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 

And  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade. 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 

And  he,  by  Friar''s  lantern  led. 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat  105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set; 


MIL  TUN. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-labourers  could    not  end ; 
Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend,  no 

And,   stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus,  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,  I15 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then. 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace,   high  triumphs  hold,  120 

'With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  1 25 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod    stage  anon. 
If  Jonson''s  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 
And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 
That  Orpheus"  self  may  heave  his  head  145 


IL    PENSEROSO. 


From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and   hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained    Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL   PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  witliout  lather  bred ! 
How  little  you  bested. 

Or  fill  the  fix6d  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain,  5 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train.  10 

But,   hail !  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy ! 
Hail,   divinest  Melancholy  ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view  15 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue^ 
Black,   but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred    Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 

His  daughter  she ;  in  Saturn's  reign  25 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain. 


MIL  TON. 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met   her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,   devout  and  pure. 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come ;  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,   till 

With  a  sad  leaden    downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet,  45 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  dotli  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ;  50 

But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

The  Cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  silence  hist  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,   tliat  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,   most  melancholy ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 

1   woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And,   missing  thee,   I  walk  unseen  65 


IL    PENSEROSO. 


On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the   wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Lilce  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,  70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,   on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-oil:'  curfew  sound. 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of«  mirth. 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour,  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,   or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that   hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,   air,   flood,   or  underground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent  95 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what   (though  rare)   of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,   O  sad  Virgin !  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musaeus  from   liis  bower; 


MIL  TOA'. 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pkito's  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ; 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  1 1  o 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass. 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass. 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  -beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear^  120 

Thus,   Night,   oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 

With   the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  130 

And,   when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  Haring  beams,   me.   Goddess,  bring 

To  archdd  walks  of  twilight  groves. 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heavdd  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's    garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh. 

That  at  her  flowery  work   doth  sing, 


IL    PENSEROSO. 


And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such    consort  as  they  l<eep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy- feathered   Sleep. 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or   underneath. 

Sent  by  some   Spirit  to  mortals  good. 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embow6d  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy-proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious   light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow, 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,   through  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies,  165 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These   pleasures,   Melancholy,  give;  175 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


jQ  MILTON. 


LYCIDAS. 

In  this  Monody  the  Aut.  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortunately  drowned  in  his 
passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637;  and,  by  occasion,  foretells  the 
ruin  of  our  corrupted  Clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more. 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year.  5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?    he  knew  lo 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty    rime. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then,   Sisters  of  the  sacred  well  15 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse  : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn,  2(. 

And,   as  he  passes,   turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud  ! 

For  we  were  nursed    upon  the  self-same  hill. 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared  25 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright  2>° 

Tosvard  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 


Z  YCIDAS.  1 1 

Meanwliile  the  rural   ditties  were   not  mute  ; 

Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute 

Rough   Satyrs  danced,   and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 

From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long;  35 

And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  s<    .g» 

But,   oh  !  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must   return ! 
Thee,   Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves. 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown.  40 

And  all  their  echoes,   mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,  45 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,   that  their   gay  wardrobe  wear. 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ; 
Such,   Lycidas,   thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye.   Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep    50 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,   the  famous  Druids,  lie. 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream.  55 

Ay  me  !   I   fondly  dream 

"  Had  ye  been  there,"  ...  for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When,   by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,   shepherd's  trade,  65 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise  7c 


12  MILTON. 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears,  75 

And  slits  the  thin-spun   Hfe.      "  But  not  the  praise," 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears : 

"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 

Nor  in  the   glistening  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,   nor  in  broad  nmiour  lies,  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honoured  flood,  85 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
l?ut  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea, 

That  came  in   Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,   and  asked  the  felon  winds. 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ;  95 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed : 
The  air  was  calm,   and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all    her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next,  Camus,   reverend  sire,   went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge  105 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah!  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,   "my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean   Lake ; 


LYC/DAS.  13 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  iio 

(The    golden  opes,   the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,   and  stern  bespake  :  — 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such  as,   for  their  bellies'  sake. 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold!  115 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the  least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?     What  need  they  ?     They  are  sped  ; 

And,  when  they  list,   their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,   and  are  not  fed,  125 

But,   swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank   mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door  130 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,   Alpheus ;   the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,   Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues.  135 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,   and  gushing  brooks. 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers,  140 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,   and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that   hang  the  pensive   head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 


14 


MILTON. 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears,  150 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

Ay  me !    whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled;  155 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  BelleiTis  old,  160 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold. 

Look  homeward,  Angel,   now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 

And,   O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,   weep  no  more,         165 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,   is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  ore  170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 

Through  the  dear  might  of  Hini   that  walked  the  waves. 

Where,   other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 

With   nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks   he  laves,  175 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 

There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above. 

In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies. 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 

Now,   Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 

Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore. 

In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 

To  all   tliat   wander  in  tliat   i)ciiloiis  flood.  185 

Thus  saniT  the  uncouth   swain   to  the  oaks  and  rills, 


ON   SHAKESPEARE.  15 


While  the  stil!  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey: 

He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 

With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 

And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills,  190 

And   now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 

At  last  he  rose,   and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 

To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 


ON    SHAKESPEARE.     1630. 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honoured  bones 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  pildd  stones? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 

Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame,  5 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 

Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 

For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art. 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart  10 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took, 

Then  thou,   our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving. 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving. 

And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie  15 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


1 6  MTL  TON. 


SONNETS. 

ON  HIS  HAVING  ARRIVED  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,   the  subtle  thief  of  youth. 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive   the  truth  5 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 

Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 

It  shall    be  still  in  strictest  measure  even  10 

To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 

Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven. 
All  is,   if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 


TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL,   MAY,   1652, 

ON    THE    PROPOSALS   OF     CERTAIN   MINISTERS    AT    THE    COjM.MITTEE 
FOR    PROPAGATION    OF    THE   GOSPEL. 

Cromwell,   our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,   but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  has  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud  5 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pursued, 
While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scot's  imbrued. 
And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises  loud. 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath  :  yet  much  remains 

To  conquer  still;   Peace  hath  her  victories  10 

No  less  renowned  than  War :   new  foes  arise, 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,   whose   Gospel  is  their  maw. 


SONNETS.  17 


ON    THE    LATE   MASSACRE   IN    PIEDMONT. 

Avenge,   O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old. 
When  all  our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and  stones, 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant ;   that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


ON    HIS    BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,   lest  He  returning  chide, 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,    "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,   they  serve  him  best.     His  state 

Is  kingly :   thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


MIL  TOM. 


TO   CYRIACK   SKINNER. 


Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day  these  eyes,  though  clear, 

To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot. 

Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot ; 

Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,   or  star,  throughout  the  year,  5 

Or  man,  or  woman.     Yet  I  argue  not 

Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,   nor  bate  a  jot 

Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask? 

The*  conscience,   friend,  to  have  lost  them  overplied  10 

In  Liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task. 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's  vain  mask 

Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 


DRYDEN. 


TO   MY   DEAR   FRIEND,   MR.    CONGREVE, 

ON  HIS  COMEDY  CALLED  THE  DOUBLE  DEALER. 

Well  then,  the  promised  hour  is  come  at  last, 
The  present  age  of  wit  obscures  the  past : 
Strong  were  our  sires,   and  as  they  fought  they  writ, 
Conquering  with  force  of  arms  and  dint  of  wit : 
Theirs  was  the  giant  race  before  the  flood ;  5 

And  thus,  when  Charles  returned,   our  empire  stood. 
Like  Janus,   he  the  stubborn  soil  manured. 
With  rules  of  husbandry  the  rankness  cured ; 
Tamed  us  to  manners,  when  the  stage  was  rude, 
And  boisterous  English  wit  with  art  endued.  10 

Our  age  was  cultivated  thus  at  length, 
But  what  we  gained  in  skill  we  lost  in  strength. 
Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  curst ; 
The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first ; 
Till  you,  the  best  Vitnivius,   come  at  length,  15 

Our  beauties  equal,  but  excel  our  strength. 
Firm  Doric  pillars  found  your  solid  base. 
The  fair  Corinthian  crowns  the  higher  space  ; 
Thus  all  below  is  strength,  and  all  above  is  grace. 
In  easy  dialogue  is  Fletcher's  praise  ;  20 

He  moved  the  mind,  but  had  not  power  to  raise. 
Great  Jonson  did  by  strength  of  judgment  please. 
Yet,  doubling  Fletcher's  force,   he  wants  his  ease. 
In  differing  talents  both  adorned  their  age, 
One  for  the  study,    t'other  for  the  stage.  25 

(19\ 


20  DRYDEN. 

But  both  to  Congreve  justly  shall  submit, 

One  matched*  in  judgment,  both  o'ermatched  in  wit. 

In  him  all  beauties  of  this  age  we  see, 

Etherege  his  courtship,   Southern's  purity, 

The  satire,  wit,  and  strength  of  manly  Wycherly.  30 

All  this  in  blooming  youth  you  have  achieved ; 

Nor  are  your  foiled  contemporaries  grieved. 

So  much  the  sweetness  of   your  manners  move, 

We  cannot  envy  you,  because  we  love. 

Fabius  might  joy  in  Scipio,   when  he  saw  3 

A  beardless  Consul  made  against  the  law. 

And  join  his  suffrage  to  the  votes  of  Rome, 

Though  he  with  Hannibal  was  overcome. 

Thus  old  Romano  bowed  to  Raphael's  fame, 

And  scholar  to  the  youth  he  taught  became.  40 

O  tnat  your  brows  my  laurel  had  sustained ! 
Well  had  I  been  deposed,  if  you  had  reigned : 
The  father  had  descended  for  the  son. 
For  only  you  are  lineal  to  the  throne. 

Thus,  when  the  State  one  Edward  did  depose,  45 

A  greater  Edward  in  his  room  arose : 
But  now,  not  I ,  but  poetry  is  curst ; 
For  Tom  the  second  reigns  like  Tom  the  first. 
But  let  them  not  mistake  my  patron's  part 

Nor  call  his  charity  their  own  desert.  50 

Yet  this  I  prophesy :   Thou  shalt  be  seen. 
Though  with  some  short  parenthesis  between, 
High  on  the  throne  of  wit,  and,   seated  there, 
Not  mine  —  that's  little  —  but  thy  laurel  wear. 
Thy  first  attempt  an  early  promise  made  ;  55 

That  early  promise  this  has  more  tlian  paid. 
So  bold,  yet  so  judiciously  you  dare, 
That  your  least  praise  is  to  be  regular. 
Time,   place,  and  action  may  with  pains  be  wrought, 
But  genius  must  be  bom,  and  never  can  be  taught.  60 

This  is  your  portion,  this  your  native  store : 
Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before. 
To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much;  she  could  not  give  him  more. 

Maintain  your  post  •  that's  all  the  fame  you  need ; 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  21 

For  'tis  impossible  you  shoirid  proceed.  65 

Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age, 

And  just  abandoning  th'  ungrateful  stage : 

Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 

I  live  a  rent-charge  on  His   providence : 

But  you,   whom   every  Muse  and  grace  adorn,  70 

Whom   I   foresee  to  better  fortune  born. 

Be  kind  to  my  remains ;   and  oh,   defend, 

Against  your  judgment,   your  departed  friend  ! 

Let  not  the  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue. 

But  shade  those   laurels  which  descend  to  you:  75 

And  take  for  tribute  what  these  lines  express  ; 

You  merit  more,   nor  could  my  love  do  less. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST; 
OR,     THE     POWER     OF     MUSIC. 

A    SONG    IN    HONOUR    OF    ST.    CECILIA'S    DAY:     1 697. 


'TwAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  ;  5 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around  ; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound  ■. 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais,   by  his  side. 

Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern   bride,  10 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,   happy,   happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.  15 


22  DR  YD  EN. 


CHORUS. 


Happ)-,    happy,   happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Timotheus,   placed  on  high  20 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  tlie  sky, 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove,  25 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed :  30 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around ;  35 

A  present  deity,   the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 

Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears 
Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod,  45 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


ALEXA.YDER'S    FEAST.  23 

3 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ;  50 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  ;   he  comes,   he  comes. 
Bacchus,   ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain;  55 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  60 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 

Rich  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.  65 

4 
Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise. 

His  glowing  cheeks,   his  ardent  eyes ;  7° 

And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  ; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good,  75 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,   fallen,   fallen,   fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 


24  DRYDEN. 

Deserted  at  his  utmost  need  80 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close   his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul  85 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And,   now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ;  90 

And,   now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

5 
The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 

'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move,  95 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,   he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning 
Think,   O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,  105 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 

Gazed  on  the  fair  1 1  o 

Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,   sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ; 
At   length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed. 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast.  115 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  25 


CHORUS. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,   sighed  and  looked, 
Siglied  and  looked,  and  sighed  again;  120 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

6 
Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  125 

And  rouse  him,   like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid    sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around.  130 

'  Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries. 
See  the  Furies  arise  ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  !  135 

Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain. 
And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain:  140 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high. 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods  !  145 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 
Thais  led  the  way. 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another   Helen,  fired  another  Troy.  150 


26  DRYDEN. 


CHORUS. 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,   like  another  Helen,   fired  another  Troy. 

7 

Thus  long  ago,  ic- 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,   or  kindle  soft  desire.  i6o 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  165 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  170 

GRAND   CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,   from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  175 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  180 


THE    CHARACTER    OF   A     GOOD    PARSON.  27 

THE    CHARACTER   OF   A    GOOD    PARSON. 

IMITATED    FROM    CHAUCER,    AXD    ENLARGED. 

A  PARISH-PRIEST  was  of  the  pilgrim-train ; 
An  awful,  reverend,  and  religious  man. 
His  eyes  diffuse  a  venerable  grace. 
And  charity  itself  was  in  his  face. 

Rich  was  his  soul,  though  his  attire  was  poor,  5 

(As  God  hath  clothed  his  own  ambassador)  ; 
For  such  on  earth  his  blessed  Redeemer  bore. 
Of  sixty  years  he  seemed ;  and  well  might  last 
To  sixty  more,  but  that  he  lived  too  fast; 
Refined  himself  to  soul,  to  curb  the  sense  10 

And  made  almost  a  sin  of  abstinence. 
Yet  had  his  aspect  nothing  of  severe, 
But  such  a  face  as  promised  him  sincere. 
Nothing  reser\^ed  or  sullen  was  to  see, 

But  sweet  regards,  and  pleasing  sanctity;  15 

Mild  was  his  accent,  and  his  action  free. 
With  eloquence  innate  his  tongue  was  armed ; 
Though  harsh  the  precept,  yet  the  preacher  charmed; 
For,  letting  down  the  golden  chain  from  high. 
He  drew  his  audience  upward  to  the  sky:  20 

And  oft  with  holy  hymns  he  charmed  their  ears 
(A  music  more  melodious  than  the  spheres)  : 
For  David  left  him,  when  he  went  to  rest. 
His  lyre ;  and  after  him  he  sung  the  best. 
He  bore  his  great  commission  in  his  look :  25 

But  sweetly  tempered  awe,  and  softened  all  he  spoke. 
He  preached  the  joys  of  Heaven  and  pains  of  Hell, 
And  warned  the  sinner  with  becoming  zeal ; 
But  on  eternal  mercy  loved  to  dwell. 

He  taught  the  gospel  rather  than  the  law;  30 

And  forced  himself  to  drive,  but  loved  to  draw. 
For  fear  but  freezes  minds ;  but  love,  like  heat. 
Exhales  the  soul  sublime,  to  seek  her  native  seat. 


28  DK  YDEN. 

To  threats  the  stubborn  sinner  oft  is  hard. 
Wrapped  in  his  crimes,   against  the  storm  prepared ;  35 

But  when  the  milder  beams  of  mercy  play, 
He  melts,  and  throws  his  cumbrous  cloak  away. 

Lightnings  and  thunder  (Heaven's  artOlery) 
As  harbingers   before  the  Almighty  fly: 

Those  but  proclaim  his  style,  and  disappear;  40 

The  stiller  sound  succeeds,  and  God  is  there. 

The  tithes  his  parish  freely  paid  he  took ; 
But  never  sued,  or  cursed  with  bell  and  book. 
With  patience  bearing  wrong,  but  offering  none : 
Since  every  man  is  free  to  lose  his  own.  45 

The  country  churls,  according  to  their  kind, 
(Who  gradge  their  dues,  and  love  to  be  behind). 
The  less  he  sought  his  offerings,  pinched  the  more, 
And  praised  a  priest  contented  to  be  poor. 

Yet  of  his  little  he  had  some  to  spare,  50 

To  feed  the  famished,  and  to  clothe  the  bare : 
For  mortified    he  was  to  that  degree, 
A  poorer  than  himself  he  would  not  see. 
True  priests,  he  said,  and  preachers  of  the  word, 
Were  only  stewards  of  their  sovereign  Lord,  55 

Nothing  was  theirs ;  but  all  the  public  store, 
Entrusted  riches  to  relieve  the  poor ; 
Who,  should  they  steal,   for  want  of  his  relief. 
He  judg'ed  himself  accomplice  with  the  tliief. 

Wide  was  his  parish  ;   not  contracted  close  60 

In  streets,  but  here  and  there  a  straggling  house : 
Yet  still  he  was  at  hand,  without  request. 
To  serve  the  sick,  to  succour  the  distressed ; 
Tempting,  on  foot,  alone,  without  affright. 
The  dangers  of  a  dark  tempestuous  night.  65 

All  this  the  good  old  man  performed  alone, 
Nor  spared  his  pains ;  for  curate  he  had  none. 
Nor  durst  he  tmst  another  with  his  care ; 
Nor  rode  himself  to  Paul's,  the  public  fair. 
To  chaffer  for  preferment  with  his  gold,  70 

Where  bishoprics  and  sinecures  arc  sold ; 
But  duly  watched  his  flock,  by  night  and  day; 


THE    CHARACTER    OF   A     GOOD    PARSON.  29 


And  from  the  prowling  wolf  redeemed  the  prey. 
And  hungry  sent  the  wily  fox  away. 

The  proud  he  tamed,   the  penitent  he  cheered :  75 

Nor  to  rebuke  the  rich  offender  feared. 
His  preaching  much,   but  more  his  practice  wrought ; 
(A  living  sermon  of  the  truths  he  taught)  ; 
For  this  by  rules  severe  his  life  he  squared : 
That  all  might  see  the  doctrine  which  they  heard.  80 

For  priests,  he  said,  are  patterns  for  the  rest ; 
(The  gold  of  heaven,  who  bear  the  God  impressed)  ; 
But  when  the  precious  coin  is  kept  unclean, 
The  sovereign's  image  is  no  longer  seen. 
If  they  be  foul  on  whom  the  people  trust,  85 

Well  may  the  baser  brass  contract  a  rust. 

The  prelate  for  his  holy  life  he  prized ; 
The  worldly  pomp  of  prelacy  despised. 
His  Saviour  came  not  with  a  gaudy  show 
Nor  was  his  kingdom  of  the  world  belovi  90 

Patience  in  want,   and  poverty  of  mind. 
These  marks  of  church  and  churchmen  he  designed, 
And  living  taught,  and  dying  left  behind. 
The  crown  he  wore  was  of  the  pointed  thorn; 
In  purple  he  was  crucified,  not  born.  95 

They  who  contend  for  place  and  high  degree, 
Are  not  his  sons,  but  those  of  Zebedee. 

Not  but  he  knew  the  signs  of  earthly  power 
Might  well  become  Saint  Peter's  successor; 
The  holy  father  holds  a  double  reign,  100 

The  prince  may  keep  his  pomp,  the  fisher  must  be  plain. 

Such  was  the  saint ;  who  shone  with  every  grace, 
Reflecting,  Moses-like,  his  Maker's  face. 
God  saw  his  image  lively  was  expressed; 
And  his  own  work,  as  in  creation,  blessed.  105 

The  tempter  saw  him  too  with  envious  eye, 
And,  as  on  Job,   demanded  leave  to  try. 
He  took  the  time  v/hen  Richard  was  deposed. 
And  high  and  low  with  happy  Harry  closed. 
This  Prince,  though  great  in  arms,  the  priest  withstood,    no 
Near  though  he  was,  yet  not  the  next  of  blood. 


30  DRY  DEN. 

Had  Richard  unconstrained  resigned  the  throne, 

A  King  can  give  no  more  than  is  his  own ; 

The    title   stood    entailed,   had  Richard   had  a  son. 

Conquest,  an  odious  name,  was  laid  aside;  115 

Where  all  submitted,  none  the  battle  tried. 
The  senseless  plea  of  right  by  Providence 
Was  by  a  flattering  priest  invented  since ; 
And  lasts  no  longer  than  the  present  sway, 
But  justifies  the  next  who  comes  in  play.  120 

The  people's  right  remains ;  let  those  who  dare 
Dispute  their  power,  when  they  the  judges  are. 

He  joined  not  in  their  choice,  because  he  knew 
Worse  might  and  often  did  from  change  ensue. 
Much  to  himself  he  thought;  but  little  spoke;  125 

And,  undeprived,   his  benefice  forsook. 

Now,   through  the  land,   his  cure  of  souls  he  stretched. 
And  like  a  primitive  apostle  preached. 
Still  cheerful ;  ever  constant  to  his  call ; 
By  many  followed;  loved  by  most,  admired  by  all.  130 

With  what  he  begged,  his  brethren  he  relieved ! 
And  gave  the  charities  himself  received ; 
Gave,  while  he  taught ;   and  edified  the  more. 
Because  he  showed  by  proof  'twas  easy  to  be  poor. 

He  went  not  with  the  crowd  to  see  a  shrine;  135 

But  fed  us  by  the  way  with  food  divine. 

In  deference  to  his  virtues,   1  forbear 
To  sliow  you  what  the  rest  in  orders  were : 
This  brilliant  is  so  spotless,   and  so  l)right, 
He  needs  no  foil,   but  shines  by  his  own  proper  light.      /40 


POPE. 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.    JERVAS,    WITH  MR.  DRYDEN'S 
TRANSLATION    OF   FRESNOY'S    ART   OF 
PAINTING 

This  Verse  be  thine,  my  friend,  nor  thou  refuse 
This  from  no  venal  or  ungrateful  Muse. 
Whether  thy  hand  strike  out  some  free  design, 
Where  Life  awalces,  and  dawns  at  ev'ry  line ; 
Or  blend  in  beauteous  tints  the  colour'd  mass,  5 

And  from  the  canvas  call  the  mimic  face : 
Read  these  instructive  leaves,  in  which  conspire 
Fresnoy's  close  Art,  and  Dryden's  native  Fire : 
And  reading  wish,  like  theirs,  our  fate  and  fame. 
So  mix'd  our  studies,  and  so  join'd  our  name;  10 

Like  them  to  shine  thro'  long  succeeding  age, 
So  just  thy  skill,  so  regular  my  rage. 

Smit  with  the  love  of  Sister-Arts  we  came, 
And  met  congenial,   mingling  flame  with  flame  ; 
Like  friendly  colours  found  them  both  unite,  15 

And  each  from  each  contract  new  strength  and  light. 
How  oft  in  pleasing  tasks  we  wear  the  day, 
While  summer-suns  roll  unperceiv'd  away ; 
How  oft  our  slowly-growing  works  impart. 
While  Images  reflect  from  art  to  art ;  20 

How  oft  review ;   each  finding  hke  a  friend 
Something  to  blame,  and  something  to  commend ! 

What  flatt'ring  scenes  our  wand'ring  fancy  wrought, 
Rome's  pompous  glories  rising  to  our  thought ! 
Together  o'er  the  Alps  methinks  we  fly,  25 

(31) 


32  I'OPE. 

Fir'd  with  Ideas  of  fair  Italy. 

With  thee,   on   Raphael's  Monument  I  mourn, 

Or  wait  inspiring  Dreams  at  Maro's  Urn: 

With  thee  repose,  where  Tully  once  was  laid, 

Or  seek  some  Ruin's  formidable  shade :  30 

While  fancy  brings  the  vanish'd  piles  to  view, 

And  builds  imaginary  Rome  anew ; 

Here  thy  well-study'd  marbles  fix  our  eye; 

A  fading  Fresco  here  demands  a  sigh : 

Each  heav'nly  piece  unwearied  we  compare,  35 

Match  Raphael's  grace  with  thy  lov'd  Guido's  air, 

Caracci's  strength,   Correggio's  softer  line, 

Paulo's  free  stroke,  and  Titian's  warmth  divine. 

How  finish"d  with  illustrious  toil  appears 
This  small,  well-polish'd  Gem,  the  work  of  years !  40 

Yet  still  how  faint  by  precept  is  exprest 
The  living  image  in  the  painter's  breast! 
Thence  endless  streams  of  fair  Ideas  flow. 
Strike  in  the  sketch,   or  in  the  picture  glow; 
Thence  Beauty,   waking  all  her  forms,  supplies  45 

An  Angel's  sweetness,   or  Bridgewater's  eyes. 

Muse  !  at  that  Name  thy  sacred  sorrows  shed, 
Those  tears  eternal  that  embalm  the  dead : 
Call  round  her  Tomb  each  object  of  desire, 
Each  purer  frame  inform'd  with  purer  fire :  50 

Bid  her  be  all  that  cheers  or  softens  life. 
The  tender  sister,   daughter,  friend,  and  wife : 
Bid  her  be  all  that  makes  mankind  adore ; 
Then  view  this  Marble,  and  be  vain  no  more  ! 

Yet  still  her  charms  in  breathing  paint  engage;  55 

Her  modest  cheek  shall  warm  a  future  age. 
Beauty,   frail  flow'r  that  ev'ry  season  fears. 
Blooms  in  thy  colours  for  a  thousand  years. 
Thus  Churchill's  race  shall  other  hearts  surprise, 
And  other  Beauties  envy  Worsley's  eyes ;  60 

Each  pleasing  Blount  shall  endless  smiles  bestow, 
And  soft  Belinda's  blush  for  ever  glow. 

Oh,  lasting  as  those  Colours  may  they  shine. 
Free  as  thy  stroke,   yet  faultless  as  thy  line; 


EPISTLE     TO    LORD    TURLLXGTOX.  33 

New  graces  yearly  like  thy  works  display,  65 

Soft  without  weakness,  without  glaring  gay; 

Led  by  some  rule,  that  guides,  but  not  constrains ; 

And  finish'd  more  thro'  happiness  than  pains. 

The  kindred  Arts  shall  in  their  praise  conspire  ; 

One  dip  the  pencil,  and  one  string  the  lyre.  70 

Yet  should  the  Graces  all  thy  figures  place, 

And  breathe  an  air  divine  on  ev'ry  face ; 

Yet  should  the  Muses  bid  my  numbers  roll 

Strong  as  their  charms,  and  gentle  as  their  soul ; 

With  Zeuxis'  Helen  thy  Bridgewater  vie,  75 

And  these  be  sung  'till  Granville's  Mira  die  ; 

Alas !  how  little  from  the  grave  we  claim ! 

Thou  but  preserv'st  a  Face,  and  I  a  Name. 


EPISTLE   TO   RICHARD   BOYLE,    EARL   OF 
BURLINGTON. 

'Tis  strange,  the  Miser  should  his  Cares  employ 
To  gain  those  Riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy : 
Is  it  less  strange,  the  Prodigal  should  waste 
His  wealth,  to  purchase  what  he  ne'er  can  taste  ? 
Not  for  himself  he  sees,  or  hears,  or  eats ;  5 

Artists  must  choose  his  Pictures,  Music,   Meats: 
He  buys  for  Topham,  Drawings  and  Designs, 
For  Pembroke,   Statues,  dirty  Gods,  and  Coins; 
Rare  monkish  Manuscripts  for  Hearne  alone. 
And  Books  for  Mead,  and  Butterflies  for  Sloane.   *  *  *      10 

For  what  has  Virro  painted,  built,  and  planted? 
Only  to  show,  how  many  Tastes  he  wanted. 
What  brought  Sir  Visto's  ill  got  wealth  to  waste?  15 

Some  Daemon  whisper'd,   "Visto!  have  a  Taste." 
Heav'n  visits  with  a  Taste  the  wealthy  fool, 
And  needs  no  Rod  but  Ripley  with  a  Rule. 
See  !  sportive  fate,   to  punish  awkward  pride, 
Bids  Bubo  build,  and  sends  him  such  a  Guide :  20 


34  POPE. 

A  standing  sermon,  at  each  year's  expense, 
That  never  Coxcomb  reached  Magnificence  ! 

You  show  us,  Rome  was  glorious,  not  profuse, 
And  pompous  buildings  once  were  things  of  Use. 
Yet  shall,  my  Lord,  your  just,  your  noble  rules  25 

Fill  half  the  land  with  Imitating-Fools ; 
Who  random  drawings  from  your  sheets  shall  take, 
And  of  one  beauty  many  blunders  make ; 
Load  some  vain  Church  with  old  Theatric  state. 
Turn  Arcs  of  triumph  to  a  garden-gate  ;  30 

Reverse  your  Ornaments,  and  hang  them  all 
On  some  patched  dog-hole  ek'd  with  ends  of  wall ; 
Then  clap  four  slices  of  Pilaster  on't. 
That,  lac'd  with  bits  of  rustic,   makes  a  Front ; 
Shall  call  the  winds  thro'  lo"g  arcades  to  roar,  35 

Proud  to  catch  cold  at  a  Venetian  door; 
Conscious  they  act  a  true  Palladian  part. 
And,  if  they  starve,  they  starve  by  rules  of  art. 

Oft  have  you  hinted  to  your  brother  Peer 
A  certain  truth,  which  many  buy  too  dear:  40 

Something  there  is  more  needful  than  Expense, 
And  something  previous  ev"n  to  Taste  —  'tis  Sense : 
Good  Sense,   which  only  is  the  gift  of  Heav'n, 
And  tho'  no  Science,   fairly  worth  the  seven : 
A  Light,  which  in  yourself  you  must  perceive ;  45 

Jones  and  Le  N6tre  have  it  not  to  give. 

To  build,  to  plant,  whatever  you  intend. 
To  rear  the  Column,  or  the  Arch  to  bend. 
To  swell  the  Terrace,  or  to  sink  tlie  Grot ; 
In  all,  let  Nature  never  be  forgot.  50 

But  treat  the  Goddess  like  a  modest  fair, 
Nor  over-dress,   nor  leave  her  wholly  bare  ; 
Let  not  each  beauty  everywhere  be  spy'd. 
Where  half  the  skill  is  decently  to  hide. 
He  gains  all  points,  who  pleasingly  confounds,  55 

Surprises,  varies,  and  conceals  the  Bounds. 

Consult  the  Genius  of  the  Place  in  all ; 
That  tells  the  Waters  or  to  rise,  or  fall ; 
Or  helps   th'  ambitious   Hill  tlie  hcav'ns  to  scale. 


EPISTLE     TO    LORD    BURLLNGTON.  35 

Or  scoops  in  circling  theatres  the  Vale ;  60 

Calls  in  the  Country,   catches  op'ning  glades, 

Joins  willing  woods,   and  varies  shades  from  shades ; 

Now  breaks,   or  now  directs  th'  intending  Lines ; 

Paints  as  you  plant,   and,   as  you  work,   designs. 

Still  follow  Sense,   of  ev'ry  Art  the  Soul,  65 

Parts  answering  parts  shall  slide  into  a  whole, 
Spontaneous  beauties  all  around  advance. 
Start  ev'n  from  Difficulty,   strike  from  Chance  ; 
Nature  shall  join  you ;  Time  shall  make  it  grow 
A  Work  to  wonder  at — perhaps  a  Stowe.  70 

Without  it,   proud  Versailles  !  thy  glory  falls  ; 
And  Nero's  Terraces  desert  their  walls : 
The  vast  Parterres  a  thousand  hands  shall  make, 
Lo !  CoBHAM  comes,  and  floats  them  with  a  Lake : 
Or  cut  wide  views  thro'  Mountains  to  the  Plain,  75 

You'll  wish  your  hill  or  sheltered  seat  again. 
Ev'n  in  an  ornament  its  place  remark, 
Nor  in  an  Hermitage  set  Dr.   Clarke. 

Behold  Villario's  ten  years'  toil  complete ; 
His  Quincunx  darkens,   his  Espaliers  meet ;  80 

The  Wood  supports  the  Plain,   the  parts  unite, 
And  strength  of  Shade  contends  with  strength  of  Light ; 
A  waving  Glow  the  bloomy  beds  display, 
Blushing  in  bright  diversities  of  day. 

With  silver-quiv'ring  rills  msander'd  o'er —  85 

Enjoy  them,   you !  Villario  can  no  more  ; 
Tir'd  of  the  scene  Parterres  and  Fountains  yield, 
He  finds  at  last  he  better  likes  a  Field. 

Thro'  his  young  Woods  how  pleas'd  Sabinus  stray'd. 
Or  sat  delighted  in  the  thick'ning  shade,  90 

With  annual  joy  the  redd'ning  shoots  to  greet, 
Or  see  the  stretching  branches  long  to  meet ! 
His  Son's  fine  Taste  an  op'ner  Vista  loves. 
Foe  to  the  Dryads  of  his  Father's  groves ; 
One  boundless  Green,  or  flourish'd  Carpet  views,  95 

With  all  the  mournful  family  of  Yews ; 
The  thriving  plants,  ignoble  broomsticks  made. 
Now  sweep  those  Alleys  they  were  born  to  shade. 


36  POPE. 

At  Timon's  Villa  let  us  pass  a  day, 
Where  all  cry  out,    "What  sums  are  thrown  away!"  loo 

So  proud,  so  grand ;  of  that  stupendous  air, 
Soft  and  Agreeable  come  never  there. 
Greatness,  with  Timon,   dwells  in  such  a  draught 
As  brings  all  Brobdignag  before  your  thought. 
To  compass  this,   his  building  is  a  Town,  105 

His  pond  an  Ocean,   his  parterre  a  Down  : 
Who  but  must  laugh,  the  Master  when  he  sees, 
A  puny  insect,  shiv'ring  at  a  breeze  ! 
Lo,  what  huge  heaps  of  littleness  around  ! 
The  whole,  a  laboured  Quarry  above  ground;  iio 

Two  Cupids  squirt  before  ;  a  Lake  behind 
Improves  the  keenness  of  the  Northern  wind. 
His  Gardens  next  your  admiration  call. 
On  ev'rj'  side  you  look,  behold  the  Wall ! 

No  pleasing  intricacies  intervene,  1 1 5 

No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene ; 
Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  Alley  has  a  brother, 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other. 
The  suftring  eye  inverted  Nature  sees, 

Trees  cut  to  Statues,   Statues  thick  as  trees ;  1 20 

With  here  a  Fountain,   never  to  be  play'd ; 
And  there  a  Summer-house,  that  knows  no  shade ; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  thro'  myrtle  bow'rs ; 
There  Gladiators  fight,  or  die  in  flow'rs ; 

Un-watered  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn,  125 

And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  Urn. 

My  Lord  advances  with  Majestic  mien, 
Smit  with  the  mighty  pleasure,  to  be  seen : 
But  soft,  — by  regular  approach, — not  yet, — 
First  thro'  the  length  of  yon  hot  Terrace  sweat;  130 

And  when  up  ten  steep  slopes  you've  dragg'd  your  thighs. 
Just  at  his  Study-door  he'll  bless  your  eyes. 

His  Study!  with  what  Authors  is  it  stor'd.-' 
In  Books,   not  Authors,   curious  is  my  Lord ; 
To  all  their  dated  Backs  he  turns  you  round:  135 

These  Aldus  printed,   these  Du  Sueil  has  bound. 
Lo  some  are  Vellum,  and  the  rest  as  good 


EPISTLE     TO    LORD    BURLTNG7 ON.  37 

For  all  his  Lordship  knows,   but  they  are  Wood. 

For  Locke  or  Milton  'tis  in  vain  to  look, 

These  shelves  admit  not  any  modern  book.  140 

And  now  the  Chapel's  silver  bell  you  hear, 
That  summons  you  to  all  the  Pride  of  Pray'r : 
Light  quirks  of  Music,   broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  Jig  to  Heav'n. 
On  painted  Ceilings  you  devoutly  stare,  145 

Where  sprawl  the  Saints  of  Verrio  or  Laguerre, 
On  gilded  clouds  in  fair  expansion  lie, 
And  bring  all  Paradise  before  your  eye. 
To  rest,   the  Cushion  and  soft  Dean  invite. 
Who  never  mentions  Hell  to  ears  polite.  150 

But  hark !  the  chiming  Clocks  to  dinner  call ; 
A  hundred  footsteps  scrape  the  marble  Hall : 
The  rich  Buffet  well-colour'd  Serpents  grace, 
And  gaping  Tritons  spew  to  wash  your  face. 
Is  this  a  dinner?  this  a  Genial  room?  155 

No,  'tis  a  Temple,  and  a  Hecatomb. 
A  solemn  Sacrifice,  pei^form'd  in  state. 
You  drink  by  measure,  and  to  minutes  eat. 
So  quick  retires  each  flying  course,  you'd  swear 
Sancho's  dread  Doctor  and  his  Wand  were  there.  160 

Between  each  Act  the  tremljling  salvers  ring, 
From  soup  to  sweet-wine,   and  Cod  bless  the  King. 
In  plenty  starving,   tantaliz'd  in  state," 
And  complaisantly  help'd  to  all   I  hate. 
Treated,  caress'd,   and  tir'd,   I   take  my  leave,  165 

Sick  of  his  civil  Pride  from   Morn  to  Eve ; 
I  curse  such  lavish  cost  and  little  skill. 
And  swear  no  Day  was  ever  past  so  ill. 

Yet  hence  the  Poor  are  cloth'd,  the  Hungry  fed ; 
Health  to  Himself,   and  to  his  Infants  bread  170 

The  Lab'rer  bears  :   What  his  hard  Heart  denies, 
His  charitable  Vanity  supplies. 

Another  age  shall  see  the  golden  Ear 
Embrown  the  Slope,  and  nod  on  the  Parterre, 
Deep  Harvests  bury  all  his  pride  has  plann'd,  175 

And  lauffhinof  Ceres  re-assume  the  land. 


398t>2*i 


,<B^«rf 


38  POPE. 

Who  then  shall  grace,   or  who  improve  the  Soil? 
Who  plants  like  Bathurst,   or  who  builds  like  Boyle. 
'Tis  Use  alone  that  sanctifies  Expense, 
And  Splendour  borrows  all  her  rays  from  Sense.  i8o 

His  Father's  Acres  who  enjoys  in  peace, 
Or  makes  his  Neighbours  glad,  if  he  increase : 
Whose  cheerful  Tenants  bless  their  yearly  toil, 
Yet  to  their  Lord  owe  more  than  to  the  soil ; 
Whose  ample  Lawns  are  not  asham'd  to  feed  185 

The  milky  heifer  and  deserving  steed ; 
Whose  rising  Forests,  not  for  pride  or  show, 
But  future  Buildings,  future  Navies  grow : 
Let  his  plantations  stretch  from  down  to  down. 
First  shade  a  Country,  and  then  raise  a  Town.  190 

You  too  proceed !  make  falling  Arts  your  care, 
Erect  new  wonders,  and  the  old  repair ; 
Jones  and  Palladio  to  themselves  restore. 
And  be  whatever  Vitruvius  was  before  : 

'Till  Kings  call  forth  th'  Ideas  of  your  mind,  195 

(Proud  to  accomplish  what  such  hands  designed), 
Bid  Harbours  open,   Public  Ways  extend. 
Bid  Temples,  worthier  of  the  God,  ascend ; 
Bid  the  broad  Arch  the  dang'rous  Flood  contain, 
The  Mole  projected  break  the  roaring  Main ;  200 

Back  to  his  bounds  their  subject  Sea  command, 
And  roll  obedient  Rivers  thro'  the  Land : 
These  Honours  Peace  to  happy  Britain  brings, 
These  are  Imperial  Works,  and  wortliy  Kings. 


EPISTLE    TO  AUGUSTUS.     [GEORGE   IL] 

While  you,   great  Patron  of  Mankind  I  sustain 
The  balanc'd  World,  and  open  all  the  Main ; 
Your  Country,  chief  in  Arms,  abroad  defend. 
At  home,  with  Morals,  Arts,   and  Laws  amend ; 
How  shall  the  Muse,   from  such  a  Monarch,  steal 


EPISTLE     TO    AUGUSTUS.  39 

An  hour,  and  not  defraud  the  Public  Weal? 

Edward  and  Henry,  now  the  Boast  of  Fame, 
And  virtuous  Alfred,  a  more  sacred  Name, 
After  a  life  of  genVous  Toils  endurd. 
The  Gaul  subdu'd,  or  Property  secur'd,  lo 

Ambition  humbled,  mighty  Cities  storm'd. 
Or  Laws  established,  and  the  world  reform'd ; 
Clos'd  their  long  Glories  with  a  sigh,  to  find 
Th'  unwilling  Gratitude  of  base  mankind ! 
All  human  Virtue,  to  its  latest  breath,  15 

Finds  Envy  never  conquered  but  by  Death. 
The  great  Alcides,  ev'ry  Labour  past, 
Had  still  this  Monster  to  subdue  at  last. 
Sure  fate  of  all,  beneath  whose  rising  ray 
Each  star  of  meaner  merit  fades  away !  20 

Oppressed  we  feel  the  beam  directly  beat. 
Those  Suns  of  Glory  please  not  till  they  set. 

To  thee,  the  World  its  present  homage  pays, 
The  Harvest  early,  but  mature  the  praise : 
Great  Friend  of  Liberty  !    in  Kings  a  Name  25 

Above  all  Greek,  above  all  Roman  Fame : 
Whose  Word  is  Truth,  as  sacred  and  rever'd, 
As  Heav'n's  own  Oracles  from  Altars  heard. 
Wonder  of  Kings !  like  whom,   to  mortal  eyes 
None  e'er  has  risen,  and  none  e'er  shall  rise.  30 

Just  in  one  instance,  be  it  yet  confest. 
Your  People,   Sir,  are  partial  in  the  rest: 
Foes  to  all  living  worth  except  your  own. 
And  Advocates  for  folly  dead  and  gone. 
Authors,  like  coins,  grow  dear  as  they  grow  old;  35 

It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  gold. 
Chaucer's  worst  ribaldry  is  learn'd  by  rote, 
And  beastly  Skelton  Heads  of  Houses  quote : 
One  likes  no  language  but  the  Faery  Queen ; 
A  Scot  will  fight  for  Christ's  Kirk  o'  the  Green;  40 

And  each  true  Briton  is  to  Ben  so  civil. 
He  swears  the  Muses  met  him  at  the  Devil. 

Tho'  justly  Greece  her  eldest  sons  admires. 
Why  should  not  We  be  wiser  than  our  sires? 


40  POPE. 

In  ev'ry  Public  virtue  we  excel;  ^c 

We  build,  we  paint,  we  sing,  we  dance  as  well, 
And  learned  Athens  to  our  art  must  stoop, 
Could  she  behold  us  tumbling  thro'  a  hoop. 

If  Time  improve  our  Wit  as  well  as  Wine 
Say  at  what  age  a  Poet  grows  divine?  co 

Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  account  him  so, 
Who  died,  perhaps,  an  hundred  years  ago? 
End  all  disputes;   and  fix  the  year  precise 
When  British  bards  begin  t'  immortalize? 

"Who  lasts  a  century  can  have  no  flaw,  55 

"  I  hold  that  Wit  a  Classic,  good  in  law." 

Suppose  he  wants  a  year,  will  you  compound? 
And  shall  we  deem  him  Ancient,  right  and  sound, 
Or  damn  to  all  eternity  at  once. 
At  ninety-nine,  a  Modern  and  a  Dunce?  60 

' '  We  shall  not  quarrel  for  a  year  or  two ; 
"  By  courtesy  of  England,  he  may  do." 

Then  by  the  rule  that  made  the  Horse-tail  bare, 
I  pluck  out  year  by  year,  as  hair  by  hair. 
And  melt  down  Ancients  like  a  heap  of  snow ,  65 

While  you  to  measure  merits,  look  in  Stowe, 
And  estimating  authors  by  the  year. 
Bestow  a  Garland  only  on  a  Bier. 

Shakespear  (whom  you  and  ev'ry  Play-house  bill 
Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will)  70 

For  gain,   not  glory,  wing'd  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  Immortal  in  his  own  despite. 
Ben,  old  and  poor,  as  little  seem'd  to  heed 
The  Life  to  come,  in  evVy  Poet's  Creed. 
Who  now  reads  Cowley?  if  he  pleases  yet,  75 

His  Moral  pleases,   not  his  pointed  wit ; 
Forgot  his  Epic,   nay  Pindaric  Art ; 
But  still  I  love  the  language  of  his  heart. 

"Yet  surely,  surely,  these  were  famous  men! 
"What  boy  but  hears  the  sayings  of  old  Ben?  So 

"In  all  debates  where  Critics  bear  a  part, 
"  Not  one  but  nods,  and  talks  of  Jonson's  Art, 
"Of  Shakespear's  Nature,   and  of  Cowley's  Wit; 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  41 

"How  Beaumont's  judgment  check'd  what  Fletcher  writ; 
"How  Shadwell  hasty,   Wycherley  was  slow;  85 

"  But  for  the  Passions,   Southern  sure  and  Rowe. 
"  These,  only  these,  support  the  crowded  stage, 
"  From  eldest  Hej-wood  down  to  Gibber's  age." 

All  this  may  be ;  the  People's  Voice  is  odd, 
It  is,  and  it  is  not,  the  voice  of  God.  90 

To  Gammer  Gurton  if  it  give  the  bays, 
And  yet  deny  the  Careless  Husband  praise, 
Or  say  our  Fathers  never  broke  a  rule ; 
Why  then,   I  say,  the  Public  is  a  fool. 

But  let  them  own,  that  greater  Faults  than  we  95 

They  had,  and  greater  Virtues  I'll  agree. 
Spenser  himself  affects  the  Obsolete, 
And  Sydney's  verse  halts  ill  on  Roman  feet : 
Milton's  strong  pinion  now  not  Heav'n  can  bound. 
Now  Serpent-like,  in  prose  he  sweeps  the  ground,  100 

In  Quibbles  Angel  and  Archangel  join, 
And  God  the  Father  turns  a  School-divine. 
Not  that  I'd  lop  the  Beauties  from  his  book, 
Like  slashing  Bentley  with  his  desp'rate  hook, 
Or  damn  all  Shakespear,  like  th'  affected  Fool  105 

At  court,  who  hates  whatever  he  read  at  school. 

But  for  the  Wits  of  either  Charles's  days. 
The  Mob  of  Gentlemen  who  wrote  with  Ease ; 
Sprat,  Carew,   Sedley,  and  a  hundred  more, 
(Like  twinkling  stars  the  Miscellanies  o'er)  no 

One  Simile,  that  solitary  shines 
In  the  dry  desert  of  a  thousand  lines. 
Or  lengthen"d  Thought  that  gleams  through  many  a  page, 
Has  sanctify'd  whole  poems  for  an  age. 

I  lose  my  patience,  and  I  own  it  too,  nS 

When  works  are  censur'd,   not  as  bad  but  new; 
While  if  our  Elders  break  all  reason's  laws. 
These  fools  demand  not  pardon,  but  Applause. 

On  Avon's  bank,  where  fiow'rs  eternal  blow, 
If  I  but  ask,  if  any  weed  can  grow;  120 

One  Tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride 
Which  Betterton's  grave  action  dignify'd, 


42  POPE. 

Or  well-mouth'd  Booth  with  emphasis  proclaims, 

(Tho'  but,  perhaps,  a  muster-roll  of  Names) 

How  will  our  Fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage,  125 

And  swear,  all  shame  is  lost  in  George's  Age ! 

You'd  think  no  Fools  disgraced  the  former  reign. 

Did  not  some  grave  Examples  yet  remain. 

Who  scorn  a  Lad  should  teach  his  father  skill. 

And,  having  once  been  wrong,  will  be  so  still.  130 

He,  who  to  seem  more  deep  than  you  or  I, 

Extols  old  Bards,  or  Merlin's  Prophecy, 

Mistake  him  not ;   he  envies,   not  admires. 

And  to  debase  the  Sons,  exalts  the  Sires. 

Had  ancient  times  conspir'd  to  disallow  135 

What  then  was  new,  what  had  been  ancient  now? 

Or  what  remain'd,  so  worthy  to  be  read 

By  learned  Critics,   of  the  mighty  Dead? 

In  Days  of  Ease,  when  now  the  weary  Sword 
Was  sheath'd,  and  Luxury  with   Charles  restored;  140 

In  ev'ry  taste  of  foreign  Courts  improved, 
"All,  by  the  King's  Example,  liv'd  and  lov'd." 
Then  Peers  grew  proud  in  Horsemanship  t'  excel, 
Newmarket's  Glory  rose,  as  Britain's  fell ; 
The  Soldier  breath'd  the  Gallantries  of  France,  145 

And  ev'ry  flow'ry  Courtier  writ  Romance. 
Then  Marble,  soften'd  into  life,  grew  warm : 
And  yielding  Metal  flow'd  to  human  form : 
Lely  on  animated  Canvas  stole 

The  sleepy  Eye,  that  spoke  the  melting  soul.  150 

No  wonder  then,  when  all  was  Love  and  sport, 
The  willing  Muses  were  debauch'd  at  Court : 
On  each  enervate  string  they  taught  the  note 
To  pant,  or  tremble  thro'  an  Eunuch's  throat. 

But  Britain,   changeful  as  a  Child  at  play,  155 

Now  calls  in  Princes,  and  now  turns  away. 
Now  Whig,  now  Tory,  what  we  lov'd  we  hate ; 
Now  all  for  Pleasure,   now  for  Church  and  State ; 
Now  for  Prerogative,  and  now  for  Laws ; 
Effects  unhappy  from  a  Nolile  Cause.  160 

Time  was,  a  sober  Englishman  would  knock 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  43 

His  servants  wg,  and  rise  by  five  o'clock. 

Instruct  his  Family,  in  ev'ry  rule, 

And  send  his  Wife  to  church,  his  Son  to  school. 

To  worship  like  his  Fathers,  was  his  care;  165 

To  teach  their  frugal  Virtues  to  his  Heir; 

To  prove,  that  Luxury  could  never  hold ; 

And  place,  on  good  Security,  his  Gold. 

Now  times  are  chang'd,  and  one  Poetic  Itch 

Has  seiz'd  the  Court  and  City,  pooi  and  rich :  1 70 

Sons,   Sires,  and  Grandsires,  all  will  wear  the  bays, 

Our  Wives  read  Milton,  and  our  Daughters  Plays, 

To  Theatres,  and  to  Rehearsals  throng, 

And  all  our  Grace  at  table  is  a  Song. 

I,  who  so  oft  renounce  the  Muses,  lie,  175 

Not  —  's  self  e'er  tells  more  Fibs  than  I ; 

When  sick  of  Muse,  our  follies  we  deplore, 

And  promise  our  best  Friends  to  rime  no  more ; 

We  wake  next  morning  in  a  raging  fit, 

And  call  for  pen  and  ink  to  show  our  Wit.  i8a 

He  serv'd  a  'Prenticeship,  who  sets  up  shop ; 
Ward  try'd  on  Puppies,  and  the  Poor,  his  Drop ; 
Ev'n  Radcliiif's  Doctors  travel  first  to  France, 
Nor  dare  to  practise  till  they've  learn'd  to  dance. 
Who  builds  a  Bridge  that  never  drove  a  pile?  185 

(Should  Ripley  venture,  all  the  world  would  smile)  ; 
But  those  who  cannot  write,  and  those  who  can. 
All  rhyme,  and  scrawl,  and  scribble,  to  a  man. 

Yet,  Sir,  reflect,  the  mischief  is  not  great ; 
These  Madmen  never  hurt  the  Church  or  State:  190 

Sometimes  the  Folly  benefits  Mankind ; 
And  rarely  Av'rice  taints  the  tuneful  mind. 
Allow  him  but  his  plaything  of  a  Pen, 
He  ne'er  rebels,  or  plots,  like  other  men : 
Flight  of  Cashiers,  or  Mobs,  he'll  never  mind;  195 

And  knows  no  losses  while  the  Muse  is  kind. 
To  cheat  a  Friend,  or  Ward,  he  leaves  to  Peter; 
The  good  man  heaps  up  nothing  but  mere  metre. 
Enjoys  his  Garden  and  his  book  in  quiet ; 
And  then  —  a  perfect  Hermit  in  his  diet.  200 


44  POPE. 

Of  little  use  the  Man  j'ou  may  suppose, 
Who  says  in  verse  what  others  say  in  prose ; 
Yet  let  me  show,  a  Poet's  of  some  weight, 
And  (tho'  no  Soldier)  useful  to  the  State. 
What  will  a  Child  learn  sooner  than  a  Song?  205 

What  better  teach  a  Foreigner  the  tongue? 
What's  long  or  short,  each  accent  where  to  place. 
And  speak  in  public  with  some  sort  of  grace? 
I  scarce  can  think  him  such  a  worthless  thing, 
Unless  he  praise  some  Monster  of  a  King;  210 

Or  Virtue,  or  Religion  turn  to  sport. 
To  please  a  lewd  or  unbelieving  Court. 
Unhappy  Dryden  !  —  In  all  Charles's  days, 
Roscommon  only  boasts  unspotted  bays ; 
And  in  our  own  (excuse  some  Courtly  stains)  215 

No  whiter  page  than  Addison  remains. 
He,  from  the  taste  obscene  reclaims  our  youth. 
And  sets  the  Passions  on  the  side  of  Truth, 
Forms  the  soft  bosom  with  the  gentlest  art. 
And  pours  each  human  Virtue  in  the  heart.  220 

Let  Ireland  tell,  how  Wit  upheld  her  cause, 
Her  Trade  supported,  and  supplied  her  Laws ; 
And  leave  on  Swift  this  grateful  verse  engrav'd : 
"The  Rights  a  Court  attack'd,  a  Poet  sav'd." 
Behold  the  hand  that  wrought  a  Nation's  cure,  225 

Stretch'd  to  relieve  the  Idiot  and  the  Poor, 
Proud  Vice  to  brand,  or  injur'd  Worth  adorn. 
And  stretch  the  Ray  to  Ages  yet  unborn. 
Not  but  there  are,  wlio  merit  other  palms ; 
Hopkins  and  Sternhold  glad  the  heart  with  Psalms ;     230 
The  Boys  and  Girls  whom  charity  maintains. 
Implore  your  help  in  these  pathetic  strains : 
How  could  Devotion  touch  the  country  pews, 
Unless  the  Gods  bestow'd  a  proper  Muse? 
Verse  cheers  their  leisure.  Verse  assists  their  work,      235 
Verse  prays  for  Peace,  or  sings  down  Pope  and  Turk. 
The  silenc'd  Preacher  yields  to  potent  strain, 
And  feels  that  grace  his  pray"r  besouglit  in  vain ; 
The  blessing  thrills  thro'  all  the  lab'ring  tlirong. 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  45 

And  Heav'n  is  won  by  Violence  of  Song,  240 

Our  rural  Ancestors,  with  little  blest. 
Patient  of  labour  when  the  end  was  rest, 
Indulg'd  the  day  that  hous'd  their  annual,  grain. 
With  feasts,  and  offerings,  and  a  thankful  strain ; 
The  joy  their  wives,  their  sons,  and  servants  share,     245 
Ease  of  their  toil,  and  part'ners  of  their  care : 
The  laugh,  the  jest,  attendants  on  the  bowl, 
Smoothed  ev'ry  brow,  and  open'd  evVy  soul : 
With  growing  years  the  pleasing  Licence  grew, 
And  Taunts  alternate  innocently  flew.  250 

But  Times  corrupt,  and  Nature,  ill-inclin'd, 
Produced  the  point  that  left  a  sting  behind ; 
Till  friend  with  friend,  and  families  at  strife, 
Triumphant  Malice  rag'd  thro'  private  life. 
Who  felt  the  wrong,  or  fear'd  it,  toolc  th'  alarm,  255 

AppeaPd  to  Law,  and  Justice  lent  her  arm. 
At  length,  by  wholesome  dread  of  statutes  bound. 
The  Poets  learn'd  to  please,  and  not  to  wound : 
Most  warp'd  to  Flatt'ry's  side ;   but  some,  more  nice. 
Preserved  the  freedom,  and  forebore  the  vice.  260 

Hence  Satire  rose,  that  just  the  medium  hit. 
And  heals  with  Morals  what  it  hurts  with  Wit. 

We  conquer'd  France,  but  felt  our  Captive's  charms ; 
Her  Arts  victorious  triumphed  o'er  our  Arms ; 
Britain  to  soft  refinements  less  a  foe,  265 

Wit  grew  polite,  and  Numbers  learn'd  to  flow. 
Waller  was  smooth ;   but  Dryden  taught  to  join ' 
The  varying  verse,  the  full-resounding  line. 
The  long  majestic  March,  and  Energy  divine. 
Tho'  still  some  traces  of  our  rustic  vein  270 

And  splay-foot  verse,  remain'd,  and  will  remain. 
Late,  very  late,  correctness  grew  our  care. 
When  the  tir'd  Nation  breath'd  from  civil  war. 
Exact  Racine,  and  Corneille's  noble  fire, 
Show'd  us  that  France  had  something  to  admire.  275 

Not  but  the  Tragic  spirit  was  our  own. 
And  full  in  Shakespear,   fair  in  Otway  shone : 
But  Otway  fail'd  to  polish  or  refine. 


46  POPE.     , 

And  fluent  Shakespear  scarce  effaced  a  line. 

Ev'n  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot,  280 

The  last  and  greatest  Art,  the  Art  to  blot. 

Some  doubt,  if  equal  pains,  or  equal  fire 

The  humbler  Muse  of  Comedy  require. 

But  in  known  Images  of  life,   I  guess 

The  labour  greater,  as  th'  indulgence  less.  285 

Observe  how  seldom  ev'n  the  best  succeed : 

Tell  me  if  Congreve's  Fools  are  Fools  indeed? 

What  pert,  low  Dialogue  has  Farquhar  writ ! 

How  Van  wants  grace,   who  never  wanted  wit ! 

The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astrasa  tread,  290 

Who  fairly  puts  all  Characters  to  bed ! 

And  idle  Cibber,  how  he  breaks  the  laws, 

To  make  poor  Pinky  eat  with  vast  applause ! 

But  fill  their  purse,  our  Poet's  work  is  done, 

Alike  to  them,  by  Pathos  or  by  Pun.  295 

O  you !  whom  Vanity's  light  bark  conveys 
On  Fame's  mad  voyage  by  the  wind  of  praise. 
With  what  a  shifting  gale  your  course  you  ply, 
For  ever  sunk  too  low,  or  borne  too  high ! 
Who  pants  for  glory  finds  but  short  repose,  300 

A  breath  revives  him,  or  a  breath  o'ertlirows. 
Farewell  the  stage !    if  just  as  thrives  the  play. 
The  silly  bard  grows  fat,  or  falls  away. 

There  still  remains,  to  mortify  a  Wit, 
The  many-headed  Monster  of  the  Pit :  305 

A  senseless,  wortliless,  and  unhonour'd  crowd ; 
Who,  to  disturb  their  betters  mighty  proud, 
Clatt'ring  their  sticks  before  ten  lines  are  spoke. 
Call  for  the  Farce,  the  Bear,  or  the  Black-joke. 
What  dear  delight  to  Britons  Farce  affords !  310 

Ever  the  taste  of  Mobs,  but  now  of  Lords; 
(Taste,  that  eternal  wanderer,  which  flies 
From  heads  to  ears,  and  now  from  ears  to  eyes). 
The  Play  stands  still ;  damn  action  and  discourse. 
Back  fly  the  scenes,  and  enter  foot  and  horse;  315 

Pageants  on  Pageants,  in  long  order  drawn, 
Peers,   Heralds,   BishopS;   Ermine,   Gold  and  Lawn ; 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  47 


The  Champion  too  !  and,  to  complete  the  jest, 

Old  Edward's  Armour  beams  on  Gibber's  breast. 

With  laughter  sure  Democritus  had  died,  320 

Had  he  beheld  an  Audience  gape  so  wide. 

Let  Bear  or  Elephant  be  e'er  so  white, 

The  people,  sure,  the  people  are  the  sight! 

Ah  luckless  Poet!  stretch  thy  lungs  and  roar. 

That  Bear  or  Elephant  shall  heed  thee  more;  325 

While  all  its  throats  the  Gallery  extends, 

And  all  the  Thunder  of  the  Pit  ascends ! 

Loud  as  the  Wolves,  on  Orcas's  stormy  steep, 

Howl  to  the  roarings  of  the  Northern  deep. 

Such  is  the  shout,  the  long-applauding  note,  330 

At  Quin's  high  plume,  or  Oldtield's  petticoat ; 

Or  when  from  Gourt  a  birth-day  suit  bestow'd. 

Sinks  the  lost  Actor  in  the  tawdry  load. 

Booth  enters  —  hark  !  the  Universal  peal ! 

"But  has  he  spoken?"     Not  a  syllable.  335 

What  shook  the  stage,  and  made  the  People  stare? 

Gato's  long  Wig,  flow'r'd  gown,  and  lacquer'd  chair. 

Yet  lest  you  think  I  rally  more  than  teach. 
Or  praise  malignly  Arts  I  cannot  reach. 
Let  me  for  once  presume  t'  instruct  the  times,  340 

To  know  the  Poet  from  the  Man  of  rimes : 
'Tis  he,  who  gives  my  breast  a  thousand  pains, 
Gan  make  me  feel  each  Passion  that  he  feigns: 
Enrage,  compose,  with  more  than  magic  Art, 
With  Pity,  and  with  Terror,  tear  my  heart;  345 

And  snatch  me,  o'er  the  earth,   or  thro'  the  air. 
To  Thebes,  to  Athens,  when  he  will,  and  where. 

But  not  this  part  of  the  Poetic  state 
Alone,  deserves  the  favour  of  the  Great ; 
Think  of  those  Authors,   Sir,   who  would  rely  350 

More  on  a  Reader's  sense,  than  Gazers  eye. 
Or  who  shall  wander  where  the  Muses  sing? 
Who  climb  their  mountain,  or  who  taste  their  spring? 
How  shall  we  fill  a  Library  with  Wit, 
When  Merlin's  Gave  is  half  unfurnish'd  yet?  355 

My  Liege !     why  Writers  little  claim  your  thouglit, 


48  POPE. 

1  guess;     and,  with  their  leave,  will  tell  the  fault: 

We  Poets  are   (upon  a  Poet's  word) 

Of  all  mankind,  the  creatures  most  absurd : 

The  season,  when  to  come,  and  when  to  go,  360 

To  sing,  or  cease  to  sing,  we  never  know ; 

And  if  we  will  recite  nine  hours  in  ten. 

You  lose  your  patience,  just  like  other  men. 

Then  too  we  hurt  ourselves,  when  to  defend 

A  single  verse,  we  quarrel  with  a  friend ;  365 

Repeat  unask'd;     lament,  the  Wit's  too  fine 

For  vulgar  eyes,   and  point  out  ev'ry  line. 

But  most,  when  straining  with  too  weak  a  wing. 

We  needs  will  write  Epistles  to  the  King ; 

And  from  the  moment  we  oblige  the  town,  370 

Expect  a  place,  or  pension  from  the  Crown ; 

Or  dubb'd  Historians,  by  express  command, 

T'  enroll  your  Triumphs  o'er  the  seas  and  land, 

Be  caird  to  Court  to  plan  some  work  divine. 

As  once  for  Louis,  Boileau  and  Racine.  375 

Yet  think,  great  Sir !    (so  many  Virtues  shown) 
Ah  think,  what  Poet  best  may  make  them  known? 
Or  choose  at  least  some  Minister  of  Grace, 
Fit  to  bestow  the  Laureate's  weighty  place. 

Charles,  to  late  times  to  be  transmitted  fair,  380 

Assigned  his  figure  to  Bernini's  care ; 
And  great  Nassau  to  Kneller's  hand  decreed 
To  fix  him  graceful  on  the  bounding  Steed ; 
So  well  in  paint  and  stone  they  judg'd  of  merit : 
But  Kings  in  Wit  may  want  discerning  Spirit.  385 

The  Hero  WilHam,  and  the  Martyr  Charles, 
One  knighted  Blackmore,  and  one  pension'd  Quarles ; 
Which  made  old  Ben,  and  surly  Dennis  swear, 
"No  Lord's  anointed,  but  a  Russian  Bear." 

Not  with  such  majesty,  such  bold  relief,  390 

The  Forms  august,  of  King,  or  conqu'ring  Chief, 
E'er  swell'd  on  marble,  as  in  verse  have  shin'd 
(In  polish'd  verse)  the  Manners  and  the  Mind. 
Oh !    could  I  mount  on  the  Ma?onian  wing. 
Your  Arms,  your  Actions,  your  repo.se  to  sing!  395 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  49 

What  seas  you  travers'd,   and  what  fields  you  fought ! 

Your  Country's  Peace,  how  oft,  how  dearly  bought ! 

How  barb'rous  rage  subsided  at  your  word, 

And  Nations  wondered  while  they  dropp'd  the  sword ! 

How,  when  you  nodded,  o'er  the  land  and  deep,  400 

Peace  stole  her  wing,   and  wrapt  the  world  in  sleep  ; 

'Till  earth's  extremes  your  mediation  own, 

And  Asia's  Tyrants  tremble  at  your  Throne  — 

But  Verse,  alas  !    your  Majesty  disdains ; 

And  I'm  not  us'd  to  Panegyric  strains  :  405 

The  Zeal  of  Fools  offends  at  any  time, 

But  most  of  all,  the  Zeal  of  Fools  in  rime. 

Besides,  a  fate  attends  on  all  I  write, 

That  when  I  aim  at  praise,  they  say  I  bite. 

A  vile  Encomium  doubly  ridicules;  410 

There's  nothing  blackens  like  the  ink  of  fools. 

If  true,   a  woeful  likeness  ;   and  if  lies, 

"Praise  undeserv'd  is  scandal  in  disguise:" 

Well  may  he  blush,  who  gives  it,   or  receives ; 

And  when  I  flatter,  let  my  dirty  leaves  415 

(Like  Journals,   Odes,  and  such  forgotten  things 

As  Eusden,  Philips,  Settle,  writ  of  Kings) 

Clothe  spice,  line  trunks,  or,  flutt'ring  in  a  row. 

Befringe  the  rails  of  Bedlam  and  Soho. 


THOMSON. 


WINTER. 

See,  Winter  comes,   to  rule  the  varied  year. 
Sullen  and  sad,   with  all  his  rising  train ; 
Vapors,  and  clouds,  and  storms.     Be  these  my  theme ; 
These,   that  exalt  the   soul  to  solemn  thought. 
And  heavenly  musing.        *  *  * 

Now  when  the  cheerless  empire  of  the  sky 
To  Capricorn  the  Centaur  Archer  yields, 
And  fierce  Aquarius  stains  the  inverted  vear, 
Hung  o'er  the  furthest  verge  of  heaven,  the  sun 
Scarce  spreads  o'er  ether  the  dejected  day.  45 

Faint  are  his  gleams,  and  ineffectual  shoot 
His  struggling  rays,  in  horizontal  lines. 
Through  the  thick  air;   as,  clothed  in  cloudy  storm, 
Weak,  wan,   and  broad,  he  skirts  the  southern  sky; 
And,   soon-descending,   to  the  long,   dark  night,  50 

Wide-shading  all,   the  prostrate  world  resigns. 
Nor  is  the  night  unwished ;   while  vital  heat. 
Light,   life,   and  joy,   the  dubious  day  forsake. 
Meantime,   in  sable  cincture,   sliadows  vast, 
Deep-tinged  and  damp,  and  congregated  clouds,  55 

And  all  the  vapory  turbulence  of  heaven. 
Involve  the  face  of  things.     Thus  Winter  falls, 
A  heavy  gloom  oppressive  o'er  the  world, 
Through  Nature  shedding  influence  malign. 
And  rouses  up  tlie  seeds  of  dark  disease.  60 

The  soul  of  man  dies  in  him,  loathing  life. 
And  black  with  more  than  melancholy  views. 
The  cattle  droop  ;   and  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 


WINTER.  51 


Fresh  from  the  plow,  the  dun-discolored  flocks, 

Untended  spreading,  crop  the  wholesome  root.  65 

Along  the  woods,  along  the  moorish  fens. 

Sighs  the  sad  Genius  of  the  coming  storm ; 

And  up  among  the  loose  disjointed  cliflFs, 

And  fractured  mountains  wild,   the  brawling  brook 

And  cave,  presageful,  send  a  hollow  moan,  70 

Resounding  long  in  listening  Fancy's  ear. 

Then  comes  the  father  of  the  tempest  forth, 
Wrapt  in  black  glooms.     First,  joyless  rains  obscure 
Drive  through  the  mingling  skies  with  vapor  foul, 
Dash  on  the  mountain's  brow,   and  shake  the  woods  75 

That  grumbling  wave  below.      The  unsightly  plain 
Lies  a  brown  deluge ;   as  the  low-bent  clouds 
Pour  flood  on  flood,  yet  unexhausted  still 
Combine,  and  deepening  into  night  shut  up 
The  day's  fair  face.     The  wanderers  of  heaven,  80 

Each  to  his  home,   retire  ;     save  those  that  love 
To  take  their  pastime  in  the  troubled  air. 
Or  skimming  flutter  round  the  dimply  pool. 
The  cattle  from  the  untasted  fields  return. 
And  ask  with  meaning  low,  their  wonted  stalls,  85 

Or  nmiinate  in  the  contiguous  shade. 
Thither  the  household  feathery  people  crowd  — 
The  crested  cock,   with  all  his  female  train, 
Pensive  and  dripping;  while  the  cottage  hind 
Hangs  o'er  the  enlivening  blaze,  and  taleful  there  go 

Recounts  his  simple  frolic :   much  he  talks, 
And  much  he  laughs,   nor  recks  the  storm  that  blows 
Without,   and  rattles  on  his  humble  roof. 

Wide  o'er  the  brim,   with  many  a  torrent  swelled. 
And  the  mixed  ruin  of  its  banks  o'erspread,  95 

At  last  the  roused-up  river  pours  along : 
Resistless,  roaring,   dreadful,  down  it  comes, 
From  the  rude  mountain,   and  the  mossy  wild. 
Tumbling  through  rocks  abrupt,   and  sounding  far; 
Then  o'er  the  sanded  valley  floating  spreads,  100 

Calm,  sluggish,  silent ;   till  again,   constrained 
Between  twp  meeting  hills,   it  bursts  away. 


52  THOMSON. 


Where  rocks  and  woods  o'erhang  the  turbid  stream ; 

There  gathering  triple  force,  rapid  and  deep, 

It  boils,   and  wheels,   and  foams,   and  thunders  through.**  *  105 

The  keener  tempests  come ;   and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,   or  piercing  north. 

Thick  clouds  ascend  —  in  whose  capacious  womb  225 

A  vapory  deluge  lies,   to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends, 
At  first  thin  wavering;  till  at  last  the  flakes  230 

Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,   dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.      The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all ;   save  where  the  new  snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.      Low,   the  woods  235 

Bow  their  hoar  head ;   and,   ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray. 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste  that  buries  wide 

The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer-ox  240 

Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,   and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,   crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone,  245 

The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.     Half-afraid,  he  first  25a 

Against  the  window  beats ;  then,  brisk  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;   then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is ; 
Till,   more  familiar  grown,   the  table-cnmibs  255 

Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare. 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 


WINTER.  53 


By  death  in  various  forms,   dark  snares,   and  dogs. 

And  more  unpitying  men,   tlie  garden  seeks,  260 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.      The  bleating  kind 

Eye  the  black  heaven,   and  next  the  glistening  earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;   then,   sad  dispersed. 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through   heaps  of  snow. 

Now,   shepherds,  to  your  helpless  charge  be  kind ;        265 
Baffle  the  raging  year,   and  iill  their  pens 
With  food  at  will ;   lodge  them  below  the  storm. 
And  watch  them  strict :   for  from  the  bellowing  east. 
In  this  dire  season,   oft  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Sweeps  up  the  burden  of  whole  wintry  plains  270 

At  one  wide  waft,  and  o'er  the  hapless  flocks, 

Hid  in  the  hollow  of  two  neighboring  hills. 
The  billowy  tempest  whelms  ;   till,   upward  urged, 

The  valley  to  a  shining  mountain  swells. 

Tipped  with  a  wreath  high-curling  in  the  sky.  275 

As  thus  the  snows  arise,  and  foul  and  fierce 

All  Winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air. 

In  his  own  loose-revolving  fields  the  swain 

Disastered  stands  ;   sees  other  hills  ascend, 

Of  unknown  joyless  brow ;  and  other  scenes,  280 

Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  traclcless  plain ; 

Nor  finds  the  river,   nor  the  forest,   hid 

Beneath  the  formless  wild  ;   but  wanders  on 

From  hill  to  dale,   still  more  and  more  astray  — 

Impatient  flouncing  through  the   drifted  heaps,  285 

Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home  ;   the  thoughts  of  home 

Rush  on  his  nerves,   and  call  their  vigor  forth 

In  many  a  vain  attempt.      How  sinks  his  soul  ! 

What  black  despair,   what  horror  fills  his  heart  ! 

When  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fancy  feigned  290 

His  tufted  cottage,  rising  through  the  snow. 

He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste, 

Far  from  the  track,  and  blest  abode  of  man ; 

While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 

And  every  tempest,  howling  o'er  his  head,  295 

Renders  tlie  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 

Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 


54  THOMSON. 


Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 

(A  dire  descent !)   beyond  the  power  of  frost ; 

Of  faithless  bogs ;   of  precipices  huge,  300 

Smoothed  up  with  snow;   and,    (what  is  land  unknown. 

What  water),  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 

In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake. 

Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 

These  check  his  fearful  steps;  and  down  he  sinks  305 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 

Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death; 

Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  Nature  shoots 

Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man  — 

His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen.  310 

In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 

The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm ; 

In  vain  his  little  children,   peeping  out 

Into  the  mingling  storm,   demand  their  sire. 

With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas!  315 

Nor  wife,   nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold. 

Nor  friends,   nor  sacred  home.     On  every  nerve 

The  deadly  Winter  seizes ;   shuts  up  sense ; 

And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 

Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse —  320 

Stretched  out,   and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast.   *   *    * 

Now,  all  amid  the  rigors  of  the  year, 
In  the  wild  depth  of  Winter,  while  without  425 

The  ceaseless  winds  blow  ice,  be  my  retreat. 
Between  the  groaning  forest  and  the  shore. 
Beat  by  the  boundless  multitude  of  waves, 
A  rural,   sheltered,   solitary  scene  ; 

Where  ruddy  fire  and  beaming  tapers  join  430 

To  cheer  the  gloom.     There  studious  let  me  sit, 
And  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead ; 
Sages  of  ancient  time,  as  gods  revered, 
As  gods  beneficent,  who  blessed  mankind 
With  arts,   with  arms,   and  humanized  a  world.  435 

Roused  at  the  inspiring  thought,  I  throw  aside 
The  long-lived  volume ;  and,  deep-musing,  hail 
The  sacred  shades,   that  slowly-rising  pass 


WINTER.  55 


Before  my  wondering  eyes.      First  Socrates, 

Who,   firmly  good  in  a  corrupted  state,  440 

Against  the  rage  of  tyrants  single  stood 

Invincible  !  calm  reason's  holy  law, 

That  voice  of  God  within  the  attentive  mind, 

Obeying,   fearless,   or  in  life  or  death  : 

Great  moral  teacher  !    wisest  of  mankind  !  445 

Solon  the  next,  who  built  his  commonweal 

On  equity's  wide  base ;     by  tender  laws 

A  lively  people  curbing,  yet  undamped 

Preserving  still  that  quick  peculiar  lire. 

Whence  in  the  laureled  field  of  finer  arts,  450 

And  of  bold  freedom,   they  unequalled  shone  — 

The  pride  of  smiling  Greece,   and  human-kind. 

Lycurgus  then,   who  bowed  beneath  the  force 

Of  strictest  discipline,   severely  wise. 

All  human  passions.      Following  him,   I   see,  455 

As  at  Thermopylae  he  glorious  fell. 

The  firm  devoted  chief,   who  proved  by  deeds 

The  hardest  lesson  whicli   the  other  taught. 

Then  Aristides  lifts  his  honest  front ; 

Spotless  of  heart,   to  whom  the  unflattering  voice      460 

Of  freedom  gave  the  noblest  name  of  Just ; 

In  pure  majestic  poverty  revered ; 

Who,   even  his  glory  to  his  country's  weal 

Submitting,   swelled  a  haughty  rival's  fame. 

Reared  by  his  care,   of  softer  ray,  ajDpears  463 

Cimon  sweet-souled ;   whose  genius,   rising  strong. 

Shook  off  the  load  of  young  debauch :  abroad 

The  scourge  of  Persian  pride,   at  home  the  friend 

Of  every  worth  and  every  splendid  art  — 

Modest,  and  simple,  in  the  pomp  of  wealth.  470 

Then  the  last  worthies  of  Jleclining  Greece, 

Late-called  to  glory,   in  unequal  times. 

Pensive,  appear.     The  fair  Corinthian  boast, 

Timoleon,   tempered  happy,   mikl  and  firm. 

Who  wept  the  brother  while  the  tyrant  bled.  475 

And,   equal  to  the  best,  the  Theban  pair. 

Whose  virtues,   in  heroic  concord  joined. 


56  THOMSON. 


Their  country  raised  to  freedom,  empire,  fame. 

He  too,   with  whom  Athenian  honor  sunlc, 

And  left  a  mass  of  sordid  lees  behind,  4S0 

Phocion  the  Good ;  in  public  life  severe. 

To  virtue  still  inexorably  firm ; 

But  when,   beneath  his  low  illustrious  roof, 

Sweet  peace  and  happy  wisdom  smoothed  his  brow. 

Not  friendship  softer  was,   nor  love  more  kind.  4S5 

And  he,  the  last  of  old  Lycurgus'  sons, 

The  generous  victim  to  that  vain  attempt. 

To  save  a  rotten  state,   Agis,  who  saw 

Even  Sparta's  self  to  servile  avarice  sunk. 

The  two  Achsean  heroes  close  the  train :  490 

Aratus,  who  awhile  relumed  the  soul 

Of  fondly  lingering  liberty  in  Greece ; 

And  he  her  darling  as  her  latest  hope, 

The  gallant  Philopoemen,  who  to  arms 

Turned  the  luxurious  pomp  he  could  not  curt  ,•  495 

Or  toiling  in  his  farm,   a  simple  swain  ; 

Or,  bold  and  skilful,  thundering  in  the  field.   *   *   * 

To  thy  loved  haunt  return,   my  happy  muse: 
For  now,   behold,   the  joyous  winter-days. 
Frosty,  succeed ;  and  through  the  blue  serene. 
For  sight  too  fine,  the  ethereal  nitre  flies  — 
Killing  infectious  damps,  and  the  spent  air  695 

Storing  afresh  with  elemental  life. 
Close  crowds  the  shining  atmosphere ;  and  binds 
Our  strengthened  bodies  in  its  cold  embrace, 
Constringent ;   feeds,   and  animates  our  blood ; 
Refines  our  spirits,   through  the  new-strung  nerves,        700 
In  swifter  sallies  darting  to  the  brain. 
Where  sits  the  soul,  intense,   collected,   ccol. 
Bright  as  the  skies,  and  as  the  season  keen. 
All  Nature  feels  the  renovating  force 

Of  Winter,  only  to  the  thoughtless  eye  7^5 

In  niin  seen.     The  frost-concocted  glebe 
Draws  in  abundant  vegetable  soul, 
And  gathers  vigor  for  the  coming  year. 
A  stronger  glow  sits  on  the  lively  cheek 


WINTER.  57 

Of  ruddy  fire:  and  luculent  along  710 

The  purer  rivers  flow;   their  sullen  deeps, 
Transparent,   open  to  the  shepherd's  gaze. 
And  murmur  hoarser  at  the  fixing  frost. 

What  art  thou,  frost?    and  whence  are  thy  keen  stores 
Derived,  thou  secret  all-invading  j^ower,  715 

Whom  even  the  illusive  fluid  cannot  fly? 
Is  not  thy  potent  energy,  unseen. 
Myriads  of  little  salts,   or  hooked,   or  shaped 
Like  double  wedges,  and  diffused  immense 
Through  water,  earth,  and  ether?     Hence  at  eve,         720 
Steamed  eager  from  the  red  horizon  round. 
With  the  fierce  rage  of  Winter  deep  suffused. 
An  icy  gale,  oft  shifting,   o'er  the  pool 
Breathes  a  blue  film,  and  in  its  mid  career 
Arrests  the  bickering  stream.      The  loosened  ice,  725 

Let  down  the  flood,   and  half  dissolved  by  day. 
Rustles  no  more ;   but  to  the  sedgy  bank 
Fast  grows,   or  gathers  round  the  pointed  stone  — 
A  crystal  pavement,  by  the  breath  of  heaven 
Cemented  firm ;   till,  seized  from  shore  to  shore,  730 

The  whole  imprisoned  river  growls  below. 
Loud  rings  the  frozen  earth,   and   hard  reflects 
A  double  noise  ;   while  at  his  evening  watch. 
The  village  dog  deters  the  nightly  thief; 
The  heifer  lows ;  the  distant  waterfall  735 

Swells  in  the  breeze ;  and,  with  the  hasty  tread 
Of  traveller,   the  hollow-sounding  plain 
Shakes  from  afar.     The  full  ethereal  round. 
Infinite  worlds  disclosing  to  the  view. 
Shines  out  intensely  keen ;  and,  all  one  cope  740 

Of  starry  glitter,  glows  from  pola  to  pole. 
From  pole  to  pole  the  rigid  influence  falls, 
Through  the  still  night,  incessant,  heavy,   strong. 
And  seizes  Nature  fast.     It  freezes  on ; 
Till  morn,  late  rising  o'er  the  drooping  world,  745 

Lifts  her  pale  eye  unjoyous.     Then  appears 
The  various  labor  of  the  silent  night : 
Prone  from  the  dripping  eave,  and  dumb  cascade. 


58  THOMSON. 


Whose  idle  torrents  only  seem  to  roar, 

The  pendent  icicle ;     the  frost-work  fair,  750 

Where  transient  hues,  and  fancied  figures,  rise ; 

Wide-spouted  o'er  the  hill,   the  frozen  brook, 

A  livid  tract,   cold  gleaming  on  the  morn ; 

The  forest  bent  beneath  the  plumy  \va\e  ; 

And  by  the  frost  refined  tlie  whiter  snow,  755 

Incrusted  hard,  and  sounding  to  the  tread 

Of  early  shepherd,  as  he  pensive  seeks 

His  pining  flock,   or  from  the  mountain  top. 

Pleased  with  the  slippery  surface,   swift  descends. 

On  blithesome  frolics  bent,   the  youthful  swains,         760 
While  every  work  of  man  is  laid  at  rest, 
Fond  o'er  the  river  crowd,  in  various  sport 
And  revelry  dissolved ;     where  mixing  glad. 
Happiest  of  all  the  train !    the  raptured  boy 
Lashes  the  whirling  top.      Or,   where  the  Rhine  765 

Branched  out  in  many  a  long  canal  extends. 
From  every  pro\'ince  swarming,  void  of  care, 
Batavia  rushes  forth ;  and  as  they  sweep. 
On  sounding  .skates,   a  thousand  different  ways. 
In  circling  poise,  swift  as  the  winds,  along,  770 

The  then  gay  land  is  maddened  all  to  joy. 
Nor  less  the  northern  courts,   wide  o'er  the  snow 
Pour  a  new  pomp.     Eager,  on  rapid  sleds. 
Their  vigorous  youth  in  bold  contention  wheel 
The  long-resounding  course.      Meantime,   to  raise  775 

The  manly  strife,   with  highly  blooming  charms. 
Flushed  by  the    season,    Scandinavia's  dames. 
Or  Russia's  buxom  daughters,   glow  around.    *   *   * 

Muttering,  the  winds  at  eve,  with  blunted  point. 
Blow  hollow-blustering  from  the  south.      Subdued, 
The  frost  resolves  into  a  trickling  thaw.  990 

Spotted,   the  mountains  shine ;     loose  sleet  descends. 
And  floods  the  country  round.     The  rivers  swell. 
Of  bonds  impatient.     Sudden  from  tlie  hills, 
O'er  rocks  and  woods,   in  broad  brown  cataracts, 
A   thousand  snow-fed  torrents  shoot  at  once  ;  995 

And,   where  they  rusli,   the  wide-resounding  plain 


WINTER.  59 

Is  left  one  slimy  waste.      Those  sullen  seas, 

That  wash  the  ungenial  pole,   will  rest  no  more 

Beneath  the  shackles  of  the  mighty  north ; 

But,   rousing  all  their  waves,   resistless  heave.  looo 

And,   hark  !     the  lengthening  roar  continuous  runs 

Athwart  the  rifted  deep  :   at  once  it  bursts, 

And  piles  a  thousand  mountains  to  the  clouds. 

ill  fares  the  bark  with  trembling  wretches  charged, 

That,   tossed  amid  the  floating  fragments,   moors  1005 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  icy  isle. 

While  night  o'erwhelms  the  sea,   and  horror  looks 

More  horrible.      Can  human  force  endure 

The  assembled  mischiefs  that  besiege  them  round? 

Heart-gnawing  hunger,   fainting  weariness,  10  lo 

The  roar  of  winds  and  waves,  the  crush  of  ice, 

Now  ceasing,   now  renewed  with  louder  rage. 

And  in  dire  echoes  bellowing  round  the  main. 

More  to  embroil  the  deep.   Leviathan 

And  his  unwieldly  train,  in  dreadful  sport,  10 15 

Tempest  the  loosened  brine,   while  through  the  gloom. 

Far  from  the  bleak  inhospitable  shore. 

Loading  the  winds,   is  heard  the  hungry  howl 

Of  famished  monsters,   there  awaiting  wrecks. 

Yet  Providence,   that  ever-waking  eye,  1020 

Looks  down  with  pity  on  the  feeble  toil 

Of  mortals  lost  to  hope,   and  lights  them  safe 

Through  all  this  dreary  labyrinth  of  fate. 

'Tis  done  !  —  dread  Winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms. 
And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquered  year.  1025 

How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies  ! 
How  dumb  the  tuneful !      Horror  wide  extends 
His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man  ! 
See  here  thy  pictured  life ;   pass  some  few  years. 
Thy  flowering  Spring,  thy  Summer's  ardent  strength,     103c 
Thy  sober  Autumn  fading  into  age. 
And  pale  concluding  Winter  comes  at  last. 
And  shuts  the  scene.     Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 
Those  dreams  of  greatness?  those  unsolid  hopes 
Of  happiness?  those  longings  after  fame?  I035 


60  THOMSON. 


Those  restless  cares?  those  busy  bustling  clays? 

Those  gay-spent,   festive  nights?  those  veering  thoughts, 

Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shared  thy  life? 

All  now  are  vanished !     Virtue  sole  survives, 

Immortal,   never-failing  friend  of  man,  1040 

His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.  —  And  see  ! 

'Tis  come,  the  glorious  morn  !  the  second  birth 

Of  heaven  and  earth  !  awakening  Nature  hears 

The  new-creating  word,  and  starts  to  life, 

In  every  heightened  form,   from  pain  and  death  1045 

For  ever  free.   *   *   * 


JOHNSON. 


THE   VANITY  OF   HUMAN   WISHES. 

Let  observation,  •■vith  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind,  from  China  to  Peru ; 
Remark  eacli  anxious  toil,   each  eager  strife. 
And  watcli  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life : 
Then  say  liow  Iiope  and  fear,   desire  and  hate,  5 

O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of  fate, 
Where  wav'ring  man,   betray'd  by  vent'rous  pride 
To  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide. 
As  treachVous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude. 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good;  10 

How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice. 
Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant  voice ; 
How  nations  sink,  by  darling  schemes  oppressed, 
When  Vengeance  listens  to  the  fooPs  request. 
Fate  wings  with  ev'ry  wish  th'  afflictive  dart,  15 

Each  gift  of  nature  and  each  grace  of  art ; 
With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows. 
With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows. 
Impeachment  stops  the  speaker's  powVful  breath, 
And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death.  20 

But,  scarce  observ'd,  the  knowing  and  the  bold 
Fall  in  the  gen'ral  massacre  of  gold ; 
Wide-wasting  pest !  that  rages  unconfin'd. 
And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  mankind : 
For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws,  25 

For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws : 
Wealth  heap'd  on  wealth  nor  truth  nor  safety  buys : 
The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 


62  JOHNSON. 

Let  hist'ry  tell,  where  rival  kings  command. 
And  dubious  title  shakes  the  madded  land,  30 

When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the  sword. 
How  much  more  safe  the  vassal  than  the  lord ; 
Low  sculks  the  hind  beneath  the  rage  of  pow'r, 
And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tow'r, 
Untouched  his  cottage,  and  his  slumbers  sound,  35 

Tho'  confiscation's  \ailtures  hover  round. 

The  needy  traveller,  serene  and  gay. 
Walks  the  wide    heath,   and  sings  his  toil  away. 
Does  envy  seize  thee?     Crush  th'  upbraiding  joy, 
Increase  his  riches,  and  his  peace  destroy:  40 

New  fears  in  dire  vicissitude  invade  ; 
The  rustling  brake  alarms,  and  quivring  shade; 
Nor  light  nor  darkness  bring  his  pain  relief,  — 
One  shows  the  plunder,  and  one  hides  the  thief. 

Yet  still  one  genVal  cry  the  skies  assails,  45 

And  gain  and  grandeur  load  the  tainted  gales ; 
Few  know  the  toiling  statesman's  fear  or  care, 
Th'  insidious  rival  and  the  gaping  heir. 

Once  more,   Democritus,  arise  on  earth. 
With  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive  mirth,  50 

See  motley  life  in  modern  trappings  dress'd, 
And  feed  with  varied  fools  th'  eternal  jest. 
Thou  who  couldst  laugh  where  want  enchain'd  caprice. 
Toil  crush'd  conceit,  and  man  was  of  a  piece ; 
Where  wealth  unlov'd  without  a  mourner  dy'd ;  55 

And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride ; 
Where  ne'er  was  known  the  form  of  mock  debate, 
Or  seen  a  new-made  mayor's  unwieldy  state ; 
Where  change  of  fav'rites  made  no  change  of  laws. 
And  senates  heard  before  they  judg'd  a  cause ;  60 

How  wouldst  thou  shake  at  Britain's  modish  tribe, 
Darl  the  quick  taunt,  and  edge  the  piercing  gibe ! 
Attentive  truth  and  nature  to  descry, 
And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic  eye. 
To  thee  were  solemn  toys  or  empty  show  65 

Tiie  robes  of  pleasure  and  the  veils  of  woe : 
All  aid  the  farce,   and  all  thv  mirth   maintain. 


THE    VANITY    OF  HUMAN    WISHES.  63 

Whose  joys  are  causeless,  or  whose  griefs  are  vain. 

Such  was  the  scorn  that  fill'd  the  sage's  mind, 
Renewed  at  ev'ry  glance  on  human  kind.  70 

How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  declare. 
Search  every  state,   and  canvass  ev'ry  pray'r. 

Unnumber'd  suppliants  crowd  Preferment's  gate, 
Athirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great ; 
Delusive  Fortune  hears  th'  incessant  call :  75 

They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  fall. 
On  ev'ry  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend ; 
Hate  dogs  their  flight,   and  insult  mocks  their  end ; 
Love  ends  with  hope ;  the  sinking  statesman's  door 
Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more ;  80 

For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 
To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies ; 
From  ev'ry  room  descends  the  painted  face. 
That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place, 
And    smok'd    in  kitchens,   or  in  auction  sold,  85 

To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold ; 
For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  ev'ry  line 
Heroick  worth,  benevolence  divine : 
The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall. 
And  detestation  rids  th'  indignant  wall.  90 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal. 
Sign  her  foes'  doom,  or  guard  her  fav'rites'  zeal? 
Thro'  Freedom's  sons  no  more  remonstrance  rings, 
Degrading  nobles  and  controlling  kings ; 
Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats^,  95 

And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes ; 
With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale. 
Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-blown  dignity  see  Wolsey  stand. 
Law  in  his  voice,   and  fortune  in  his  hand:  loo 

To  him  the  church,   the  realm,   their  pow'rs  consign. 
Thro'  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine, 
Turn'd  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows, 
His  smile  alone  security  bestows : 

Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tow'r,  105 

Claim  leads  to  claim,   and  pow'r  advances  pow'r ; 


64  JOHNSON. 

Till  conquest  unresisted  ceas'd  to  please, 

And  rights  submitted  left  him  none  to  seize. 

At  length  his  sovVeign  frowns ;  —  the  train  of  state 

Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate.  iio 

Where-e'er  he  turns  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye ; 

His  suppliants  scorn  him,   and  his  followers  fly; 

Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 

The  golden  canopy,  the  glitt'ring  plate. 

The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board,  1 1 5 

The  liv'ried  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 

With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppressed. 

He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 

Grief  aids  disease,  remember'd  folly  stings. 

And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings.  120 

Speak  thou,  whose  thoughts  at  humble  peace  repine,  — 
Shall  Wolsey's  wealth,  with  Wolsey's  end,  be  thine? 
Or  liv\st  thou  now,   with  safer  pride  content. 
The  wisest  Justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 
For  why  did  Wolsey  near  the  steeps  of  fate  125 

On  weak  foundations  raise  th'  enormous  weight? 
Why,  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 
With  louder  ruin,   to  the  gulfs  below? 

What  gave  great  Villiers  to  th'  assassin's  knife. 
And  fix'd  disease  on  Harley's  closing  life?  130 

What  murder'd  Wentworth  and  what  exil'd  Hyde, 
By  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  ally'd? 
What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to  shine. 
And  powV  too  great  to  keep  or  to  resign? 

When  first  the  college  rolls  receive  his  name,  135 

The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame ; 
Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 
Caught  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown : 
O'er  Bodley's  dome  his  future  labours  spread. 
And  Bacon's  mansion  trembles  o'er  his  head.  140 

Are  these  thy  views?     Proceed,  illustrious  youth, 
And  Virtue  guard  thee  to  the  throne  of  Trutli  ! 
Yet  sliould  thy  soul  indulge  the  gen'rous  heat. 
Till  captive  Science  yields  her  last  retreat ; 
Should  Reason  guide  thee  with  her  brightest  ray,  145 


THE    VANITY    OF  HUMAN    WISHES.  65 

And  pour  on  misty  Doubt  resistless  day; 

Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  ddight, 

Nor  praise  relax,   nor  difficulty  fright ; 

Should  tempting  Novelty  thy  cell  refrain, 

And  Sloth  effuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain;  150 

Should  Beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart. 

Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  lettered  heart ; 

Should  no  Disease  thy  torpid  veins   invade, 

Nor  Melancholy's  phantoms  haunt  thy  shade; 

Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger  free,  155 

Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for  thee : 

Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes, 

And  pause  awhile  from  learning,   to  be  wise  ; 

There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail  — 

Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail.  160 

See  nations  slowly  wise,  and  meanly  just, 

To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 

If  dreams  yet  flatter,  once  again  attend. 

Hear  Lydiat's  life  and  Galileo's  end. 

Nor  deem,   when  Learning  her  last  prize  bestows,     165 
The  glitt'ring  eminence  exempt  from  foes : 
See,  when  the  vulgar  'scape,  despis'd  or  aw'd, 
Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud  ! 
From  meaner  minds  tho'  smaller  fines  content,  — 
The  plunder'd  palace  or  sequester'd  rent, —  170 

Mark'd  out  by  dangrous  parts  he  meets  the  sliock. 
And  fatal  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block : 
Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and   Genius  weep. 
But  hear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and  sleep. 

The  festal  blazes,   the  triumphal  show,  175 

The  ravish'd  standard,  and  the  captive  foe. 
The  Senate's  thanks,  the  gazette's  pompous  tale. 
With  force  resistless  o'er  the  brave  prevail. 
Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o'er  Asia  whirl'd ; 
For  such  the  steady  Romans  shook  the  world;  180 

For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons  shine, 
And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine: 
This  pow'r  has  praise,  that  virtue  scarce  can  warm, 
Till  fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 


GG  yOILVSON. 

Yet  Reason  frowns  on  Wars  unequal  game,  185 

Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name, 

And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsires'  wreaths  regret, 

From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 

Wreaths  which  at  last  the  dear-bought  right  convey 

To  rust  on  medals,   or  on  stones   decay.  igo 

On  wliat  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide : 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire; 
O'er  love,   o'er  fear,   extends  his  wide  domain,  195 

Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  scepters  yield, — 
War  sounds  the  trump,   he  rushes  to  the  field ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  pow'rs  combine. 
And  one  capitulate,   and  one  resign :  200 

Peace  holds  his  hand,   but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain  ; 
"  Think  nothing  gain'd,"  he  cries,    "  till   naught  remain, 
"  On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
"And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state,  205 

And   nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 
And  Winter  barricades  tlie  realms  of  Frost : 
He  comes ;   nor  want  nor  cold  his  course   delay ; — - 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,   hide  Pultowa's  day:  210 

The  vanquish'd  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands ; 
Condemn'd  a  needy  supplicant   to  wait. 
While  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend.?  215 

Did  no  sul^verted  empire  mark  his  end.-* 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound.? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fall  was  destin'd  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  liand.  220 

He  left  the  name,   at  whicli  the  world  grew  pale. 
To  point  a  moral,   or  adorn  a  tale. 

All  times  their  scenes  of  pomj)ous  woes  afford. 


THE    VANITY    OF   HUMAN    WISHES.  67 

P'rom  Persia's  tyrant  to  Bavaria's  lord. 

In  gay  hostility  and  barb'rous  pride,  225 

With  half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side, 

Great  Xerxes  comes  to  seize  tlie  certain  prey. 

And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way. 

Attendant  Flatt'ry  counts  his  myriads  o'er. 

Till  counted   myriads  soothe  his  pride  no  more  ;  230 

Fresh  jDraise  is  try'd  till  madness  fires  his  mind,  — 

The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the  wind ; 

New  pow'rs  are  claim'd,   new  pow'rs  are  still  bestowed, 

Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading  god. 

The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show,  235 

And  heap  their  valleys  witli  the  gaudy  foe. 

Th'  insulted  sea  with  humbler  thoughts  he  gains ; 

A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains ; 

Th'  encumb'red  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded  coast 

Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating  host.  240 

The  bold  Bavarian,   in  a  luckless  hour. 
Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Ca^sarean  pow'r. 
With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away. 
And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his  sway : 
Short  sway  !  — fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful  charms  ;   245 
The  queen,   the  beauty,   sets  the  world  in  arms ; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  beacon's  rousing  blaze 
Spreads  wide  the  hope  of  plunder  and  of  praise ; 
The  fierce  Croatian  and  the  wild  Hussar, 
With  all  the  sons  of  ravage,   crowd  the  war.  250 

The  bafiied  prince  in  honour's  flatt'ring  bloom 
Of  hasty  greatness  finds  the  fatal  doom, 
His  foes'  derision  and  his  subjects'  blame. 
And  steals  to  death  from  anguish  and  from  shame. 

"Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of   days!"  255 

In  health,   in  sickness,   thus  the  suppliant  prays; 
Hides  from  himself  his  state,   and  shuns  to  know, 
That  life  protracted  is  protracted  woe. 
Time  hovers  o'er,  irhpatient  to  destroy. 

And  shuts  vc^  all  the  passages  of  joy :  260 

In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons  pour, 
The  fruit  autumnal  and  the  vernal  flow'r ; 


68  JOHNSON. 

With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the  store  : 

He  views,  and  wonders  that  they  please  no  more. 

Now  pall  the  tasteless  meats  and  joyless  wines,  265 

And  Luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 

Approach,  ye  minstrels,   try  the  soothing  strain. 

Diffuse  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain : 

No  sounds,  alas  !    would  touch  th'  impervious  ear, 

Though  dancing  mountains  witnessed  Orpheus  near;         270 

Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  pow'rs  attend, 

Nor  sweeter  musick  of  a  virtuous  friend ; 

But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue, 

Perversely  grave  or  positively  wrong. 

The  still  returning  tale  and  lingring  jest  275 

Perplex  the  fawning  niece  and  pamper'd  guest. 

While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gath'ring  sneer. 

And  scarce  a  legacy  can  bribe  to  hear; 

The  watchful  guests  still  hint  the  last  offence, 

The  daughter's  petulance,  the  son's  expense,  2S0 

Improve  his  heady  rage  with   treach'rous  skill. 

And  mould  his  passions  till  they  make  his  will. 

Unnumbered  maladies  his  joints  invade. 
Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire  blockade; 
But  unextinguished  Av'rice  still  remains,  285 

And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains : 
He  turns,  with  anxious  heart  and  crippled  hands. 
His  bonds  of  debt  and  mortgages  of  lands; 
Or  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes, 
Unlocks  his  gold,  and  counts  it  till  he  dies.  290 

But   grant,    the  virtues  of  a  temperate  prime 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime  ; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceiv'd  decay. 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away ; 

Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears,  295 

Whose  night  congratulating  Conscience  cheers ; 
The  genVal  fav'rite  as  the  general    friend : 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end? 

Yet  ev'n  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings, 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'   flagging  wings ;  300 

New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns. 


THE    VANITY   OF  HUMAN    WISHES.  69 


A  sister  sickens,   or  a  daughter  mourns. 

Now  kindred  Merit  fills  tlie  sable  bier, 

Now  lacerated  Friendsliip  claims  a  tear. 

Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay,  305 

Still  drops  some  joy  from  withering  life  away; 

New  forms  arise,  and  diff'rent  views  engage. 

Superfluous  lags  the  vet'ran  on  the  stage, 

Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release, 

And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace.  310 

But  few  there  are  whom  hours  like  these  await. 
Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  Fate. 
From  Lydia's  monarch  should  the  search  descend, 
By  Solon  caution'd  to  regard  his  end. 

In  life's  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise —  315 

Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
From  Marlb'rough's  eyes  the  streams  of  dotage  flow, 
And  Swift  expires  a  driv'Ier  and  a  show. 

The  teeming  mother,  anxious  for  her  race. 
Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face :  320 

Yet  Vane  could  tell  what  ills  from  beauty  spring; 
And  Sedley  curs'd  the  form  that  pleas'd  a  king. 
Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes. 
Whom  Pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  be  wise ; 
Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite,  —  325 

By  day  the  frolick,  and  the  dance  by  night ; 
Who  frown  with  vanity,   who  smile  with  art. 
And  ask  the  latest  fashion  of  the  heart. 
What  care,  what  rules,  your  heedless  charms  shall  save. 
Each  nymph  your  rival,   and  each  youth  your  slave?         330 
Against  your  fame  with  fondness  hate  combines. 
The  rival  batters,  and  the  lover  mines. 
With  distant  voice  neglected  Virtue  calls ; 
Less  heard  and  less,  the  faint  remonstrance  falls : 
Tir'd  with  contempt,   she  quits  the  slipp'ry  reign,  335 

And  Pride  and  Pmdence  take  her  seat  in  vain. 
In  crowd  at  once,  v/here  none  the  pass  defend, 
The  harmless  freedom  and  the  private  friend. 
The  guardians  yield,  by  force  superior  ply'd : 
To  Interest,   Prudence;   and  to   FlattVy,   Pride.  340 


70  yoinvsoN. 

Here  Beauty  falls  betray'd,  clespis'd,  distressed, 
And  hissing  Infamy  proclaims  the  rest. 

Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  objects  find? 
Must  dull  Suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 
Must  helpless  man,   in  ignorance  sedate,  345 

Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,   no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ?  — 
Enquirer,  cease ;  petitions  yet  remain. 

Which  heaven  may  hear;    nor  deem  religion  vain.  350 

Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice, 
But  leave  to  heav'n  the  measure  and  the  choice ; 
Safe  in  his  pow'r,   whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayV. 
Implore  his  aid,   in  his  decisions  rest,  355 

Secure,  whatevV  he  gives,   he  gives  the  best. 
Yet  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires. 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind. 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resigned ;  360 

For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 
For  patience,  sov'reign  o'er  transmuted  ill; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat. 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat : 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  heav'n  ordain ;  365 

These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  pow'r  to  gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


GRAY. 


ELEGY 

WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY    CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight,  c 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  towV, 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain  lo 

Of  such  as,  wandVing  near  her  secret  bow'r. 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,  15 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,   or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed.  20 

(71) 


72  GJ^^  y- 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team    afield  ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ;  30 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,   impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  thro'  the  long-drawn  isle  and  fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

Can  storied  urn,   or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breatli? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flatt'ry  sooth  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  wak'd  to  extasy  tlie  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes,   her  ample  page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,   did  ne'er  unroll ;  50 

Chill   Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And   froze  the   frcnial  current  of  the  soul. 


ELEGY.  73 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 

,  And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Seme  village-Hampden,   that,  with  dauntless  breast. 

The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood.  60 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  rain  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbad :   nor  circumscrib'd  alone  65 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd ; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life  75 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 
With  uncouth   rimes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

Their  name,   their  years,   spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


74  GRA  Y. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 
Left  the  warm  precincts  cf  the  cheerful  day. 

Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye   requires ;  90 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,   who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tales  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  tlic  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pour  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,   now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 

Mutt'ring  his  wayward  f^mcies  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,   woeful  wan,   like  one  forlorn. 

Or  craz"d  with  care,   or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I   miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd   Iiill, 

Along  the  heath  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree;  no 

Another  came  ;   nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,   nor  at  the   wood  was  he ; 

"The   next,   with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  thro'  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne.  — 

Approach  and  read   (for  thou  canst  read)   the  lay  115 

Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneatli   von  asfed  thorn." 


THE  BARD.  75 


THE     EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown : 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  liumble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  markM  him  for  her  own.  120 

Large  was  his  bounty    and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven   ('twas  all  he  wished)   a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


THE    BARD. 


"Ruin  seize  thee,  nithless  King! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ; 
Tho'  fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing, 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail. 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 

To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears. 

From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!" 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay,  i 

As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance : 
'To  arms!"  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch'd  his  quiv'ring  lance. 


76  GRA  Y. 


On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow  1 5 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Rob'd  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe. 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 

Streamed  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air),  20 

And  with  a  master's  hand  and  Prophet's  fire 
Struck  the   deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 

"  Hark,   how  each  giant-oak,  and  desert  cave. 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath  ! 
O'er  thee,   oh  King!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave,       25 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,   or  soft  Llewellyn's   lay. 

I.     3. 

"Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main :  30 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-top'd  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie,  35 

Smear'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale : 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 

The  famish'd  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear,  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes,  40 

Dear,  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries  — 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep ; 

On  yonder  clitfs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  tliem  sit ;   they  linger  yet,  45 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 


THE   BARD.  77 


II.    I. 

"  Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race  :  50 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro'  Berkley's  roofs  that  ring,  55 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate. 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.     What  terrors  round  him  wait !    60 
Amazement  in  his  van,  witli  Flight  combined. 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 


"Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies  ! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford  65 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  Sable  Warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn.  70 

Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  Zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes ; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm ; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway,  75 

That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening-prey. 

II.   3. 

"  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl. 
The  rich  repast  prepare. 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair  80 


78 


GRA  Y. 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havock  urge  their  destined  course,  85 

And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,   London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul   and  midnight   murder  fed, 

Revere  his  Consort's  faith,   his  Father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  Usurper's  holy  head  !  90 

Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twin'd  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  Boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,   brothers,  bending  o'er  th'  accursed  loom,  05 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 


"Edward,  lo  !    to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 

Half  of  tliy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.)  ico 

Stay,  oh  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn : 
In  yon  bright  track,   that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh  I  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height  105 

Descending  slow  their  glitt'ring  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-iost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,   Britannia's  issue,   hail!  iio 


THE  BARD.  79 


III.    2. 

"Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  form  divine!  115 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line ; 
Her  hon-port,   her  awe-commanding  face. 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air. 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play!  120 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,   and  soaring,   as  she  sings. 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heav'n  her  many-colour'd  wings. 

HI.  3. 

"The  verse  adorn  again  125 

Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love 
And  Truth  severe  —  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 

In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain 
With  Horror,   tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast.  130 

A  voice,  as  of  the  Cherub-Choir, 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud,      135 

Raisxl  by  thy  breath,   has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-r.-^orrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

Aiid  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me :  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign:  140 

Be  thine  Despair,  and  scepfred  Care ; 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plung'd  to  endless  night. 


GOLDSMITH. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  !    loveliest  village  of  the  plain ; 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer''s  lingering  blooms  delayed : 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  5 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  10 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,   witl:  seats  beneath  the  shade. 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,  15 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ;  20 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  l^and  inspired ; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown  25 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

(80) 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  81 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove.  30 

These  were  thy  charms,   sweet  village  !  sports  like  these. 
With  sweet  succession,   taught  even  toil  to  please  : 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed : 
These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn,  35 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain.  40 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,   works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies,  45 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And  trembling,   shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 
Far,   far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land.  50 

111  fares  the  land,   to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
'j^         Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
5  Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,   or  may  fade  ; 

f  A  breath  can  make  them,   as  a  breath  has  made  : 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,  55 

.^  When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A  time  there  was,   ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more :  60 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered ;   trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose,  65 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied. 


82  GOLDSMITH. 


And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

These  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room,  70 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 

Lived  in  each  look,   and  brightened  all  the  green  ; 

These,  far  departing,   seek  a  kinder  shore. 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour,  75 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds. 
And,   many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew,        80 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I   still  had  hopes,   my  latest  hours  to  crown,  85 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  : 
I   still  had  hopes,   for  pride  attends  us   still. 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned   skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,   my  long  vexations  past,  95 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,   friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreats  from  care,   that  never  must  be   mine. 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ;  1 00 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  tr\', 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state,  105 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from   the  gate  ; 


THE    DESERTED     VILLAGE.  83 

But  on   he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend ; 

Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way;  no 

And,   all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past ! 

Sweet  was   die  sound,   when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,  as  I  past  with  careless  steps  and  slow,  115 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school,  120 

The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  ;  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,  125 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,   solitary  tiling. 

That  feebly  bends  besides  the  plashy  spring:  130 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,   and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless   train,  135 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive   plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.  140 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,   or  seek  for  power,  145 


84  GOLDSMITH. 


By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  ; 

He  chid  their  wanderings  but  relieved  their  pain:  15a 

The  long  remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,   now  no  longer  proud. 

Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay,  155 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds  or,  ta.les  of  sorrow  done, 

Shouldered  his  crutcli  and  shewed  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ;  1 60 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call,  165 

He  watched  and  wept,   he  prayed  and  felt  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise,  175 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unalTected  grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,   remained  to  pray.  180 

The  service  past,   around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,   each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  85 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest ;  185 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest : 

To  them  his  heart,   his  love,   his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliiT  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vaie,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm,  190 

Tho'  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.  

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way. 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule,  195 

Tfie  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
I  knew  him  well,   and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ;  200 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,   or,  if  severe  in  aught,  205 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew : 
'Twas  certain  he  could  wrice,  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge:  210 

In  arguing,   too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For,   even  tho'  vanquished,   he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew,  215 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  ^\fts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye,  220 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired. 
Where  grey-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 


86  GOLDSMITH. 


And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  : 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,   a  chest  of  drawers  by  day;  230 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day. 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay ; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  shew,  231 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,   nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour''s  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart.  24c 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  wood-man's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear,  245 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.  250 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,   congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play,  255 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,   unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealtli  arrayed  —  260 

In  these,   ere  triflers  half  their  wish   obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  87 

And,   e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,   ye  statesmen  who  survey  265 

The  rich  man's  joys    increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,   how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore;  270 

Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.      This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.      The  man  of  wealth  and  pride  275 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,   equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ;    280 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  : 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 

While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all,  285 

In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 
'        As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain. 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ;  290 

But  when  those  charms  are  past,   for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,   and  when  lovers  fail. 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed :  295 

in  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed. 
But  verging  to  decline,   its  splendours  rise  ; 
Its  vistas  strike,   its  palaces  surprize  : 
While,   scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land. 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band,  300 

And  while  he  sinks,   without  one  arm  to  save, 


GOLDSMITH. 


Tlie  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,   ah  !  where,   shall  poverty  reside, 
To  scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed  305 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  tlie  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealtli  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ;  310 

l^i/(/i^A<#\ai'o  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
0  '      To  pamper  luxury,   and  thin  mankind ; 

To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade,  315 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gil^bet  glooms  beside  the  waw 

'Hie  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 

Here,   richly  deckt,   admits  the  gorgeous  train:  320 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square. 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,   the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah,   turn  thine  eyes  325 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,   perhaps,   in  village  pleuiy  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  tliorn  :  33c 

Now  lost  to  all ;   her  friends,   her  virtue   fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,   pinch'd  with   cold,   and  shrinking  from  the  shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless   hour. 
When  idly  first,   ambitious  of  the  town,  335 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  Ijrown. 

Do  thine,   sweet  Auburn,  —  thine,   the  loveliest  train,   — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even   now,   perhaps,   by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  thev  ask  a  little  bread  !  340 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.  89 

Ah,  no !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama   murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before  345 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  ding;  350 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death   around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey,  355 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene. 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green,  360 

The  breezv  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  siielteied  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloom''d  that  parting  day. 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past,  365 

Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last. 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  *'he  western  main, 
{  And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
t. Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep.  370 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears,  375 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 


90  GOLDSMITH. 


And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose,  380 

And  kist  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  claspt  them  close,  in  sorrow  dcSubly  dear, 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury:    thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree,  385 

How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 

Diffiise  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy  ! 

Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own.  .  390 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  tliey  grow, 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 

Till  sapped  their  strength,   and  every  part  unsound, 

Down,   down  they  sink,   and  spread  a  ruin  round. 
,^i.«^ven  now  the  devastation  is  begun,  395 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 

Even  now,   methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 

I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail. 

That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,  400 

Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 

Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 

Contented  toil,   and  hospitable  care. 

And  kind  conn'ibial  tenderness,  are  there ; 

And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above,  405 

And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
,  Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 

Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 

To  catch  the  heart,   or  strike  for  honest  fame :  41c 

Dear  charming  nymph,   neglected  and  decried. 

My  shame  in  crowds,   my  solitary  pride  ; 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  .ny  v/oe. 

That  found'st  n/e  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 

Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel,  415 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 

Farewell,  and  O  !    where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 

On  Torno's  clifls,   or  Pambamarca's  side, 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  91 

Whether  where  equmoctial  fervours  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,  420 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevaiHng  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigours  of  thejncleffient  clime; 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 

Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest,    425 

Tho'  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 

That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 

As  oqean  sweeps  the  laboured  mole  away; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  430 


COWPER. 


THE   WINTER   MORNING   WALK. 

'Tis  morning ;   and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb 

Ascending  fires  the  horizon :   while  the  clouds 

That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 

More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more. 

Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze,  5 

Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 

Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 

And  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue. 

From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 

Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field.  10 

Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense. 

In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 

That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade. 

Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 

I   view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb  15 

Transform'd  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair, 

As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 

Take  step  for  step ;  and  as  I  near  approach 

The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plaster'd  wall. 

Preposterous  sight !    the  legs  without  the  man  20 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 

Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge ;    and  the  bents. 

And  coarser  grass  upspearing  o'er  tlie  rest, 

Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,   now  shine 

Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  cLid  25 

And  fledged  with  icy  feathers,   nod  superb. 

The  cattle  mourn  in  corners  where  the  fence 

(92) 


THE     WINTER    MORNING     WALK.  93 

Screens  them,  and  seem  half-petrified  to  sleep 

In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 

Their  wonted  fodder,   not  Hke  hungering   man  30 

Fretful  if  unsupplied,   but  silent,   meek, 

And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 

He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustom'd  load, 

Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep  plunging  oft. 

His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass;  35 

Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 

With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 

He  severs  it  away :   no  needless  care 

Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 

Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight.  40 

Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcernM 

The  cheerful  haunts  of  man,  to  wield  the  axe 

And  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear. 

From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 

Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears  45 

And  tail  cropp'd  short,   half  lurcher,  and  half  cur. 

His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 

Now  creeps  he  slow ;  and  now  with  many  a  frisk 

Wide  scampering,   snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 

With  ivory  teeth,   or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ;  50 

Then  shakes  his  powder'd  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 

Moves  right  toward  the  mark ;   nor  stops  for  aught, 

But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 

To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube  55 

That  fumes  beneath  his  nose :    the  trailing  cloud 

Streams  far  behind  him,   scenting  all  the  air. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pale, 

Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 

Of  smiling    day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  side,  60 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known    call 

The  feather'd  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing. 

And  half  on  foot,   they  brush  tlie  fleecy  flood, 

Conscious,  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 

The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves  65 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 


04  COIVPER. 

The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 

To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 

As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,   one  only  care  70 

Remains  to  each,   the  search  of  sunny  nook. 

Or  shed  impervious  "to  the    blast.     Resign'd 

To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut,  and  wading  at  their  head 

With  well-considerM  steps,  seems  to  resent  71; 

His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrench'd. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now? 

Earth  yields  them  naught :   the  imprisou'd  worm  is  sale    80 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod ;    all  seeds  of  herbs 

Lie  cover'd  close,  and  berry-bearing  thorns 

That  feed  the  thrush,    (whatever  some  suppose) 

Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

The  long  protracted  rigor  of  the  year  85 

Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end. 

As  instinct  prompts,  self-buried  ere  they  die. 

The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields. 

Where  neither  grub  nor  root  nor  earth-nut  now  90 

Repays  their  labor  more ;  and  perch'd  aloft 

By  the  way-side,  or  stalking  in  the  path. 

Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveller's  track. 

Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them. 

Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain.  95 

The  streams  are  lost  amid  tlie  splendid  blank, 

O'erwhelming  all  distinction.     On  the  flood. 

Indurated  and  fix'd,   the  snowy  weight 

Lies  undissolved ;  while  silently  beneath, 

And  unperceived,  the  cun-ent  steals  away.  ,        loc 

Not  so,  where  scornful  of  a  check  it  leaps 

The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 

And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below : 

No  frost  can  bind  it  there  ;  its  utmost  force 

Ca.i  but  arrest  tlic  liglit  and  smoky  mist  1 05 


THE    WINTER    MORNING     WALK.  95 

That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 

And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroiderVl  banks 

With  forms  so  various,  that  no  powers  of  art, 

The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene  ! 

Here  glittering  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high  no 

(Fantastic  misarrangement !)   on  the  roof 

Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  trees 

And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops 

That  trickle  down  the  branches,   fast  congeal'd. 

Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length,  115 

And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn'd    before. 

Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 

The  sunbeam :  there  emboss'd  and  fretted  wild. 

The  growing  wondar  takes  a  thousand  shapes 

Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain  120 

The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 

Thus  nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  art, 

And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  powers ; 

By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 

Performing  such  inimitable  feats,  125 

As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired, 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man. 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ ! 

Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak,  130 

The  wonder  of  the  north.     No  forest  fell 

When  thou  wouldst    build ;    no  quarry  sent  its  stores 

To  enrich  thy  walls ;    but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a  palace  Aristjeus  found  135 

Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear: 

In  such  a  palace  poetry  might  place 

The  armory  of  winter;    where  his  troops. 

The    gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet,  140 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising   hail, 

And  snow  that  often  blinds  the  traveller's  course. 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose ; 


96  cow  PER. 

No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there.  145 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 

Were  soon  conjoined,   nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  interfused  to  make  them  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all  hues, 

Illumined  every  side;  a  watery  hght  150 

Gleamxl  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seeni'd 

Another  moon  new  risen,   or  meteor  fallen 

From  heaven  to  earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy ;  tliough  smooth 

And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frostbound  155 

Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught  within, 

That  royal  residence  might  well  befit. 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy  wreaths 

Of  flowers,  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

Blush'd  on  the  panels.     Mirror  needed  none  160 

Where  all  was  vitreous ;    but  in  order  due 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seem'd  at  least  commodious  seat)  were  there, 

Sofa  and  couch  and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all,  165 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch ;  a  scene 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream. 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

[  The  remaining  seven  hundred  andfoity  lines  of  this  poem  consist  cf  little  but 
commonplace  reflections  on  political  institutions  and  on  the  moral  government  of 
the  world.] 


BURNS. 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED   TO    ROBERT   AIKEN,    ESQ.,    OF   AYR. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  ziseful  toil. 

Their  liomely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainjul  smile. 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Foor. 

Gkay. 

My  lov'd,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays : 
With  honest  pride,   1  scorn  each  selfish  end; 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise: 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,  5 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,   the  guileless  ways; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ;  lo 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes. 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  IS 

Collects  his  spades,   his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,    o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 


98  BURNS. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  ag^d  tree ;  20 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,   stacher  thro' 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  Lit  ingle,   biinkin  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile. 
The  lisping  infant  pratthng  on  his  knee,  25 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' : 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,   some  tentie  rin  30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown. 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown. 

Or  d^posite  her  sair-won  penny-fee,  35 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  wceh'aie  kindi;    spiers: 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears;  40 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers. 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.  45 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command. 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  evdeni  hand. 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 
"An'  O!    be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway,  50 

An'  mind  your  duty,   duly,   morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  ariglit !  " 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY  NIGHT.  'y:^ 


But  hark!    a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door;  55 

Jenny,   wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ;  60 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,   inquires  his  name, 

While  Jennv  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears,  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappan  youth ;    he  takes  the  mother's  eye ;  65 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 

But  blate  and  laitlifu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,   wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy  70 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love  !    where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heartfelt  raptures !    bliss  beyond  compare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,   mortal  round,  75 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  :  — 
«'  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,   modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale,  80 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart  — 

A  wretch  !    a  villain  !    lost  to  love  and  truth !  — 
That  can,  with  studied,   sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts !    dissembling  smooth ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild?      90 


100  BURNS. 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  alford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood ; 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  comp\hiienbal  nioo4,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,   her  weel-ham'(i'"Vebfeuck/  feli;^--'^'*-'^^ 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an"  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,   wi'  serious  face,  loo 

They,  round  the  ingle,   form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare;  105 

Those  strains 'that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care. 
And   "Let  us  worship  God!"  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim :  1 10 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name : 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  tKe  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 
Compared  with  these,   Italian  trills  are  tame;  1 15 

The   tickl'd  ears   no  heartfelt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

~^"  The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage  1 20 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal   Bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,   seraphic  fire  ;  153 

Or  other  holy  Seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY  NIGHT.  101 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,   who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name. 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  Head ;  1 30 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,   who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 
And  heard  great    Babylon's   doom   pronounc'd    by   Heaven's  com- 
mand. 135 

Then  kneeling  down,   to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,   the  father,   and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope   "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,  140 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,   how  poor  Religion's  pride,  145 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,   and  of  art. 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole;  150 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas'd,   the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest:  155 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,   in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best,  160 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 


102  BURNS. 

From  scenes  like  tliese  old   Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad  : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings,  1 65 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God:" 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?    a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind,  170 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,   in  wickedness  refinVl ! 

O  Scotia  !    my  dear,  my  native  soil  ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  mstic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content!   175 
And,  Oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ; 
Then,   howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  Isle.     180 

O  Thou  !    who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art,  185 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !  ) 
O  never,  never,   Scotia's  realm  desert, 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 


TAM    O'    SHANTER.  108 


y 

TAM   O'    SHANTER. 

A    TALE 

Of  Brovmyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Biike. 

Gawin  Dodglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet, 

As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 

An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  najDpy,  5 

An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  sla^xs,  and  styles, 

That  lie  between  us  ancl  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame,  lo 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 

Nursing  her  wrath  to  I  eep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,  15 

For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

O  Tam!    hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 

As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast  a  skellum, 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum ;  20 

That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  evVy  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on,  25 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,   ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesy'd  that,  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon ;  30 

Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 


104  BURNS. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !    it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  mony  lengthened,  sage  advices,  35 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises !   _i 

But  to  our  tale :  Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely;  40 

And  at  his  elbow,   Souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  w-ieks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter ;  45 

And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus :  50 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,   mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drov.n'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy : 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure,  55 

The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ;  60 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
Tluit  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  jilace ; 
Or  like  tlie  rainbow's  lovely  form  65 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm.  — 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride ; 
That  hour,  o'  niglit's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  Ijcast  in ;  70 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in. 


TAM    C    S//.LVTER.  105 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ;  75 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow'd : 
That  night,   a  child  might  understand. 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand.  -^ 
'  Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  rnare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  80 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,   and  rain,   and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet ; 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares,  85 

Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry.  — •  '' 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 

Whare  in  the  stiaw,   the  chapman  smoor'a ;  90 

And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane^ 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,   and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well,  95 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel.  — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll:  100 

When,   glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze ; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing.  — 
Inspiring  bold  John   Barleycorn  !  I05 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippeny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquebae,  we'll  face  the  devil !  — 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammic's  noddle. 
Fair  jDlay,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle.  no 


LOG  BC/J^jVS. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 

She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  vow  !    Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ;  115 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast;  120 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge : 

He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.  — 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,  125 

That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  lield  a  light,  — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table,  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,   w'ee,   unchristenVl  bairns; 

A  thief,   new-cutted  frae  the  rape, 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red  rusted;  135 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ;  140 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 

Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'.        "x 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew;  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They  ree^'d,   they  set,   they  cross'tl,   tliey  cleekit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit ;  — 

*   *    *   witlier'd  beldams,   auld  and  droll. 


TAM    O'   SIIANTER.  107 

Rigwooddie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal,  i6o 

Lowping  and  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu'  l)rawlie, 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  waUe, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core,  165 

(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore ; 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonny  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear,)  170 

Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.  — 
Ah!    little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie,  175 

That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots   ('twas  a'  her  riches). 
Wad  ever  gracM  a  dance  o'  witches  ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r ;  1 80 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was,  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain,  185 

And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'   might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,    "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark:  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  Wion  sallied.    > 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes,  200 

When,  pop  !    she  starts  before  their  nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When,    "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 


108  BURNS. 

So  Maggie  runs,   the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow.  205 

Ah,  Tam  !    ah.  Tarn!    thou'U  get  thy  fairin  ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  spoedy  utmost,   Meg,  210 

And  win  the  key-stane  o'  the  brig:      ■* 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  nmning  stream  they  darena  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  uent  a  tail  she  had  to  shake !  215 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale  220 

But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rumjj. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed,  225 

Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,   ye  may  buv  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o'   Shanter's  mare. 


rO   A   MOUSE.  iO'J 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON    TURNING    HER    UP    IN    HER    NEST     WITH    THE    PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,     1 785. 

Wee,  sleekit,   cowVin,  timVous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  tliy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brat,tleJ-- 
I  wad  be  laitli  to  rin  an'  cliase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle  !  ] 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion  :_-'*Li2_A^tA>v'  "    '- 

Has  broken  Nature's  social  union,  ytvJL--'*-^-''''"^'^         ^ 

An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle  yiG 

At  me,   thy  poor,   earth-born  companion,  A    /&-'V"^- 

An'  fellow-mortal  !  y'  ^    J,  y^" 


I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  jthieve ;             -A- 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thpu-"maun  live!  " 

A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave  ^,  A  \ 1 5 

'S  a  sma'  request:  "  .  , 

^'      I'll  get  a  blessing  wi'  the  lave. 

And  never  miss't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,   in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  !  20 

An'  naething,   now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage^_green ! 
An'  bleak  December's  wrnds  ensuin,  7 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste,  25 

An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till  crash !    the  cruel  coulter  past, 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 


110  BUI^NS. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  liald, 
To  tliole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble,  35 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,   Mousie,   thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,  40 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  Och  !    I  backward  cast  my  e'e  45 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear ! 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN    DAISY, 

ON    TURNING    ONE    DOWN    WITH    THE    PLOUGH,  IN   APRIL,     1 786. 

Wee,   modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I   maun  crusli  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem. 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r,  5 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas !    it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
Tlie  ijonny  Lark,   companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  spreckled  breast,  lo 

When  upward-springing,   jjlylhe,   to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 


TO    A    MOUNTAIN   DAISY.  \\\ 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  nortli 

Upon  thy  early,   humble  birth ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth  15 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowVs  our  gardens  yield. 

High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield,  20 

But  thou,   beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad,  25 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  !  30 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust. 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiPd,   is  laid  35 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore,  40 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n  45 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 


1 1 2  BUJiNS. 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ;  50 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,   elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT    BRUCE'S    ADDRESS    TO    HIS    ARMY. 
Tune  — "  Hey  titttie  tatlie." 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie. 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour,-  5 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 
Chains  and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave?  10 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's   King  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,   or  free-man  fa'?  15 

Let  him  on  wi'  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be  free!  20 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die ! 


FOR    A'     THAT   AND    A'     THAT.  113 


A   RED,    RED   ROSE. 

Tune  —  "  Wishaw's far>oiirite" 

O,   MV  luve  is  like  a  red,   red  rose, 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 
O,   my  luve    is  like  the  melodie 

That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  thou  art,    my  bonny  lass,  5 

So  deep  in  luve  am   1  : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,   my  dear. 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun :  10 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,   my  only  luve. 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve,  15 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


FOR   A'   THAT   AND   A'   THAT. 

Is  there,   for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by. 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


114  BU2?NS. 

What  tho'  on  hamoly  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden-grey,  and  a'  that ;  lo 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,   tho'  e'er  sae  poor,  15 

Is  King  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that : 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that :  20 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  25 

A  marquis,   duke,   and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,   and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that,  30 

Their  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  corne  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that ; 
That  sense  and  worth,   o'er  a'  the  earth,  35 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,   tlie  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brotliers  be  for  a'  that. 


COLERIDGE 


THE   ANCIENT   MARINER. 

PART    L 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 

"The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide,  5 

And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 

The  guests  are  met,   the  feast  is  set : 

May'st  hear  the    merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he.  10 

"Hold  off!  unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon!" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye  — 

The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 

And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child:  15 

The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a   stone : 

He  cannot  chuse  but    hear; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  20 

(115) 


II Q  COLERIDGE. 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

"The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left,  25 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 

And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon "  3c 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes  35 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his   jjreast. 

Yet  he  cannot  chuse  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  40 

"  And  now  the  storm-blast  came,   and   he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  overtaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

"With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow,  45 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast. 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  50 

"And  now  there  came  botli  mist  and  snow. 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold : 

And  ice,  mast-high,   came  floating  by. 

As  green  as  emerald. 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  117 

"  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts  55 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

"  The  ice  was  here,   the  ice  was  there, 
Tlie  ice  was  all  around  :  60 

It  cracked  and  growled,   and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

"At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross. 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 

As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul,  65 

We  hailed  it  in  God\s  name. 

"  It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through.  70 

"And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 

The  Albatross  did  follow. 

And  every  day,   for  food  or  play. 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

"In  mist  or  cloud,   on  mast  or  shroud,  75 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 
Whiles  all  the  night,   through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 

"God  save  thee,   ancient  Mariner! 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  !  —  80 

Why  look'st  thou  so?" — "With  my  cross-bow 

I  shot  the  Albatross." 

PART    II. 

"The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he. 

Still  hid  in  mist,   and  on  the  left  85 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 


118  COLERIDGE. 


"And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 

Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  !  90 

"And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred,   I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

»  Ah  wretch  ! '  said  they,    '  the  bird  to  slay,  95 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! ' 

"  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own   head 

The  glorious   Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred,   I  had  killed  the  l^rd 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  100 

'  'Twas  right,'  said  they,    '  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist.' 

««  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

The  furrow  followed  free; 

We  were  the  first  that   ever  burst  105 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

"Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea!  no 

"All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky. 
The  bloody  Sun,   at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

"Day  after  day,   day  after  day,  115 

We  stuck,   nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER.  119 

"Water,  water,  everywhere. 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink:  120 

Water,   water,   everywhere,  • 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

"The  very  deep  did  rot:   O  Christ! 

That  ever  this  should  be ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs  125 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

Burnt  green,   and  blue,   and  white.  1 30 

"And  some  in  dreams  assuri^d  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

"  And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought,  135 

Was  withered  at  the  root ; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

' '  Ah  !    well-a-day  !    what  evil  looks 

Had  I  from  old  and  young  !  140 

Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 

About  my  neck  was  hung." 


PART  III. 

"  There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !    a  weary  time  !  1 45 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 


120  COLERIDGE. 


"At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck. 

And  then  it  seemed  a  mist;  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,   I  wist. 

"  A  speck,   a  mist,  a  shape,   I  wist ! 

And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 

As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite,  155 

It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

"  With  throats  unslacked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

I  bit  my  arm,   I  sucked  the  blood,  160 

And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

"  With  throats  unslacked,  with  black  lips  baked. 

Agape  they  heard  me  call : 

Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin. 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in,  165 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

"See!  see!   (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel!  170 

"  The  western  wave  was  all    a-flame, 

The  day  was  well-nigh  done ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly  175 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

"And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 

(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As  if  tlirougli  a  dungeon  grate  he  peered 

With  broad  and  burnins:  face.  180 


THE   ANCIENT   MARINER.  121 

"Alas!   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the    Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

••Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun  185 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

•'  Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free,  190 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 
The  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

"The  naked  hulk  alongside  came,  195 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

'  The  game  is  done !  I've  won,   I've  won ! ' 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

•'The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out; 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ;  200 

With  far-heard  whisper  o'er  the  sea 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

"We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  !  205 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star  £io 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

'•  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye.  215 


220 


122  COLERIDGE. 

"  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  lieard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  Hfeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

"  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly,- 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow !  " 

PART    IV. 

•♦  I  FEAR  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand!  22 c 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

•'  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 

And  thy  skinny  hand,   so   brown."  — 

"Fear  not,  fear  not,   thou  Wedding-Guest!  230 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

•'Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea ! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony.  235 

"The  many  men,  so  beautiful! 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 
Lived  on;  and  so  did  \. 

"  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht,  245 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

My  heart  as  drv  as   dust. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  123 

««I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky,  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me  255 

Had  never  passed  away. 

«'  An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye !  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

•'The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  nowhere  did  abide  : 

Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  — 

«*  Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge    shadow  lay. 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  eltish  light  275 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

* '  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam;  and  every  track  280 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


124  COLERIDGE. 

«♦  O  happy  living  things!  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware :  285 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

"The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 

The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank  290 

Like  lead  into  the  sea." 


PART   V. 

♦'Oh  Sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 

She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven,  295 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

«'  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained.  300 

"  My  lips  were  wet,   my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  dnmken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

"I   moved,   and  could  not  feel  my  limbs:  305 

I  was  so  light  —  almost 

I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

♦'And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind; 

It  did  not  come  anear;  310 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  tlic  sails. 

That  were  so  tliin  and  sere. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  125 

' '  The  vipper  air  burst  into  life  ! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about  !  315 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

"  And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud,     320 

The    Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

«'  The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side :  — 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag,  325 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 

"  The  loud  wind  never  reached   the  ship, 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the   Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

"They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

"The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on;  335 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

"  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  1  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me." 


126  COLERIDGE. 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner!"  345 

"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

"For  when  it  dawned  —  they  dropped  their  arms,    350 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

"  Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  Sun;  355 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 

Now  mixed,   now  one  by  one. 

"  Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,  360 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

"And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angeFs  song,  365 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

"It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

"  Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  llie  sliip,  37  K 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  127 

•'  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid :  and  it  was  he 

That  made  the  ship  to  go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean : 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir,  385 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion  — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length. 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

"  Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 

She  made  a  sudden  bound :  390 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

<«  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  returned,  395 

I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

«♦  '  Is  it  he?'    quoth  one,    '  Is  this  the  man? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low  400 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  '  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.'  405 

*'  The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew ; 

Quoth  he,   '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.'" 


128  COLERIDGE. 


PART    VI. 


FIRST   VOICE. 


"'But  tell  me,  tell  me!  speak  again,  410 

Thy  soft  response  renewing  — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing?' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

"  •  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast;  415 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast  — 

"  '  If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 

For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see !  how  graciously  420 

She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST   VOICE. 

<'  '  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave   or  wind  ? ' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

««  '  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from  behind.  425 

*'  'Fly,  brother,  fly!  more  high,   more  high! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariners  trance  is  abated.' 

"  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on  430 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  toijethur. 


THE   ANCIENT  MARINER.  12'J 


"All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter:  435 

Aii  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

♦'  The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 

Had  never  passed  away: 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs,  440 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

"And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more 

1  viewed  the  ocean  green. 

And  looked         forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen  —  445 

"  Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome    road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows,   a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

*'  But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 

In  ripple  or  in  shade.  455 

"  It  rais       my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek. 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

♦'  Swi    y,   swiftly  flew  the  ship,  4^->o 

Yet  she  sailiid  softly  too : 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze  — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

"Oh?  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 

The  light-house  top  I  see?  465 

Is  this  the  hill?  is  tlus  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 


130  COLERIDGE. 

"  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar. 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray  — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God !  47c: 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

"  The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon.  475 

'•  The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

' '  And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light.  480 

Till,  rising  from  the  same. 

Full  many  shapes,   that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colours  came. 

"A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  crimson  shadows  were  :  485 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck  — 
Oh,   Christ  !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

"  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And  by  the  holy  rood  ! 

A  man  all  light,   a  seraph-man,  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

"This  seraph-band,   each  waved  his  hand. 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 

Each  one  a  lovely  liglit ;  495 

"This  seraph-band,   each  waved  his  hand. 
No  voice  did  they  impart  — 
No  voice  ;   but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  Yi\ 

"  But  soon  I  heard  the  clash  of  oars,  50a 

I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  awayj 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

"The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast :  505 

Dear  Lord  in  heaven !  it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

"I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  510 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood." 

PART    VII. 

"  This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.  5  i  5 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 

He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 

That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

"  He  kneels  at  morn,   and  noon,   and  eve  — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump:  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak  stump. 

' '  The  skiff-boat  neared :   I   heard  them  talk, 

'  Why,   this  is  strange,   I   trow  ! 

Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair,  525 

That  signal  made  but  now  ? ' 

"  'Strange,   by  my  faith!'  the   Hermit  said  — 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer. 

The  planks  looked  warped  !  and  see  those  sails. 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere  !  530 

I   never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 

Unless  perchance  it  were 


132  COLERIDGE. 

"  '  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along ; 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow,  535 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolfs  young.' 

"  'Dear  Lord!  it  hath  a  fiendish  look  — 

(The  Pilot  made  reply) 

I  am  a-feared.'  —  'Push  on,   push  on!'  540 

Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

"  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I   nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard.  545 

"  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay: 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

"  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound,  550 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote. 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But,  swift  as  dreams,   myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat.  555 

"  Upon  the  whirl,   where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,   save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"I   moved  my  lips  —  the  Pilot  shrieked  360 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes. 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

' '  I  took  the  oars :   the  Pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go,  565 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  133 

Laughed  loud  and  long,   and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 
'  Ha  !  ha ! '  quoth  he,    '  full  plain  I   see. 
The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

"  And  now,   all  in  my  own  countree,  570 

I   stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat. 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"'O  shrieve  me,   shrieve  me,   holy  man!' 

The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow.  575 

'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,    '  I   bid  thee  say  — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ' 

"Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woeful  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale;  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns  : 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 

This  heart  within  me  burns.  585 

"I  pass,  like  night,   from  land  to  land; 

I   have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man   that  must  hear  me  : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

' '  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are : 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell,  595 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 


134  COLERIDGE. 

"O  Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,   wide  sea : 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemM  there  to  be.  600 

"O  sweeter  than  the  marriage  feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company !  — 

"  To  walk  together  to  the  kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Fatlier  bends, 

Old  men,   and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

"Farewell,   farewell!  but  this  I   tell  610 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest !  — 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

"He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small;  615 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone;  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest  620 

Turned  from  the  Bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose,   tlie  morrow  morn.  625 


BYRON. 

[MODERN    GREECE.] 
CHILDE    HAROLD,    CANTO    H 


And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  —  art  thou ! 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,   thy  hills  of  snow. 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favourite  now ; 
Thy  fanes,   thy  temjjles  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth. 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  mstic  plough : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,   save  well-recorded  Worth ; 


Save  where  some    solitary  column  mourns  lo 

Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ; 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave. 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass  15 

Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave. 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,   and  sigh  "Alas!" 


Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,   thy  crags  as  wild : 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled. 
And  still  his  honey'd  wealth   Hymettus   yields ; 

(135) 


136  BYRON. 

There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still   thy  long,  long  summer  gilds,  25 

Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,   holy  ground  ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  ciiisli'd  thy   temples  gone  :  35 

Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,   but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord. 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde  40 

First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of   Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word ; 
Wliich  utterd,   to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career,  45 


The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,   his  red  pursuing  spear; 
Mountains  above.  Earth's,   Ocean's  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear ! 
Such  was  the  scene  —  what  now  remaineth  here?  50 

What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd   ground. 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound. 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger !  spurns  around. 


CHILDE    HAROLD.  137 


XCI. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past  55 

Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast, 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fams  the  youth  of  many  a  shore :  60 

Boast  of  xhe  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young  ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 


XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home. 
If 'aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth  •  65 

He  that  is  lonely,   hither  let  him  roam. 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth ; 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide. 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth,  "jo 

When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side, 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Gi"eek  and  Persian  died. 


Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste : 
But  spare  its  relics  —  let  no  busy  hand  75 

Deface  the  scenes,   already  now  defaced  .' 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  j^laced. 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered : 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 
So  mayst  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth   was  rear'd,  80 

By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd  ! 


138  BYRON. 


[VENICE.] 
CHILDE  HAROLD,    CANTO  IV. 


I  STOOD  in  Venice,   on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stcoke  of  tlie  enchanter's  wand : 
A  thousand    years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles ! 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,  lo 

Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ;  —  her  daughters  had  tlieir  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East  15 

Pourd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,   and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 


In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 

And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier:  20 

Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear,  25 

The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,   the  masque  of  Italy ! 


CIIH^DE   HAROLD.  139 


But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,   and  her  long  array 

Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond  30 

Above  the  Dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto;   Shylock  and  *he   Moor, 
And  Pierre,   cannot  be  swept  o.'  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er,  35 

For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 

And  more  beloved  existence :   that  which  Fate  40 

Prohibits  to  dull  life,   in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,   by  these  spirits  supplied 
First  exiles,  then    replaces  what  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void.  45 


The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And,   annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored. 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 

St.   Mark  yet  sees  his  lion,  where  he  stood,  50 

Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power. 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalPd  dower. 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns —  55 

An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities ;  nations  meJt 


140  BYRON. 

From  Power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go  60 

Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's    belt ; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo ! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,   Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 


Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ;  65 

But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled!  —  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,   and  shun,  70 

Even  in  Destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  — 
Her  very  byword  sprung  from  victory. 

The  "Planter  of  the  Lion,"  which  through  fire  75 

And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark,   'gainst  the  Ottomite ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,   Candia !     Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight  !  80 

For   ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 


Statues  of  glass — all  shiver'd  —  the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Uoges  are  declined  to  dust ; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ;  85 

Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust. 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :   empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals, 
Have  fiung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls.  90 


CHILD E  HAROLD.  14 1 


XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 

See  !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,   the  car  95 

Of  the  overmastered  victor  stops,  tlie  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt  —  he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his  strains. 


XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine,  100 

Were  all  thy  proud  heroic  deeds  forgot. 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine. 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations,  —  most  of  all,  105 

Albion !  to  thee :  the  Ocean  Queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

XVIII. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart,  no 

Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea. 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otway,   RadclifFe,  Schiller,  Shakespeare's  art, 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so. 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part,  1 1 5 

Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


142  BYRON. 


[CASCATA    DEL   MARMORE.] 

CHrLDE  HAROLD,    CANTO   IV. 

LXIX 

The  roar  of  waters  !  —  from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice ; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss ; 
The  hell  of  waters !   where  they  howl  and  hiss,  5 

And  boil  in  endless  torture ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again  10 

Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round. 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the    ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald :  —  how  profound 
The  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element  15 

From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Cnishing  the  cliffs,  which,   downward  worn  and  rent, 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 


To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea  20 

Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
I'arcnt  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings  through  the  vale  :  —  Look  back ! 
Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity,  25 

As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track. 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread,  —  a  matchless  cataract. 


CHILDE  HAROLD.  143 


Horribly  beautiful !    but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn. 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,  30 

Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  when  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,   'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene,  35 

Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 


[THE   COLISEUM.] 

CHILDE  HAROLD,    CANTO   IV. 


I  SEE  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,   but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow  5 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is*  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the    inhuman    shout    which    haiPd    the    wretch 
who  won. 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes  10 

Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize. 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother  —  he,  their  sire,  15 

Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  — 
All  this  nish'd  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire. 
And  unavenged?  —  Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 


144  BYRON. 


CXLII. 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways,  20 

And  roarM  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain-stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
Aly  voice  sounds  much  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays       25 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bowYl  — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 


CXLIII. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,   half-cities,  have  been  rear'd; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass,  30 

And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeard. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  cleared'' 
Alas !  developed,   opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric''s  form  is  near'd ; 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day,  35 

Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft  away. 


CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air  40 

The  garland-forest,   which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head ; 
Wlien  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot  —  'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread.      45 


MANFRED.  145 


CXLV. 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,   Rome  shall  stand; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
And  when   Rome   falls  —  the  World."     From   our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call  50 

Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The    World,    the    same    wide    den  —  of    thieves,    or   what    ye 
will. 


[THE   COLISEUM   BY   MOONLIGHT.] 

MANFRED,    ACT  III.,    SCENE  4. 

The  stars  are  forth,   the  moon  above  the  tops 

Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful! 

I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade  5 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 

When  I  was  wandering  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall,  10 

Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 

The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber:  and,  15 

More  near,  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  crv,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach  20 


146  BYRON. 

Appear''d  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bowshot. — Where  the  Caesars  dwelt. 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levelPd  battlements. 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths,  25 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth ;  — 

But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection ! 

While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls. 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay.  —  30 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 

Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up. 

As  'twere  anew,   the  gaps  of  centuries;  35 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worsliip  of  the  great  of  old  !  — 

The  dead,   but  sceptred  sovereigns,   wlio  still  nile  40 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'Twas  such  a  night ! 
'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time ; 
But  I   have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 


[ST.    PETER'S.] 

CHILDE  HAROLD,    CANTO   TV. 

CLIII. 

But  lo !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome, 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Epiiesian's  miracle  — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,   and  dwell 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  M7 


The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  surveyed 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,   of  temples  old,   or  altars  new,  lo 

Standest  alone  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  His  former  city,   what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  His  honour  piled,  15 

Of  a  sublimer  aspect?     Majesty, 
Power,   Glory,   Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 


Enter :  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not ; 
And  why?  it  is  not  lessened;  but  thy  mind,  20 

Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality ;  and  thou 

Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,   so  defined,  25 

See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  His  brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou  movest  —  but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  cHmbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ;  30 

Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonize  — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities ; 

Rich  marbles  —  richer  painting  —  shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold  —  and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,   though  their  frame     35 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground  —  and    this    the    clouds    must 
claim. 


148  BYJiON. 


CLVII. 


Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye  —  so  here  condense  thy  soul  40 

To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,   and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part. 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart,  45 


CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault  —  but  thine:   Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp  —  and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  overwhelming  edilice  50 

Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 


CLIX. 


Then  pause,   and  be  enlightened;  there  is  more  55 

In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  n'lasters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,   nor  skill,   nor  tliought  could  plan ;       60 
The  fountain  of  sublimity,  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 


CHILDE    HAROLD.  149 


[THE    OCEAN.] 
CHILDE    HAROLD,    CANTO    IV. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,   but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,   in  which  I   steal 
From  all  I  may  be,   or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — liis  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,   nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,   save  his  own, 
When,   for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,   unknelPd,   uncoffin'd,   and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;   the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,   shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — there  let  him  lay. 


i-)0  j^yj^o.v. 


The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals,  30 

The  Oak  le\4athans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  \'ain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  \\-ar: 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar  35 

Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,   Greece,  Rome.  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  wliile  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  t}Tant  since ;   their  shores  obey  40 

The  stranger,  slave,  or  sa\-age ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  —  not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  \\Tites  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Sucii  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now.  45 


CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  con\Tilsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  —  50 

The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obevs  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,   fathomless,  alone. 


CIIILDE    HAROLD.  151 


CI.XXXIV 

And  I  have  loved  thee,   Ocean!  and  my  joy  55 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear,  60 

For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trvisted  to  thy  l)illows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I   do  here. 


CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done  —  my  song  hath  ceased  —  my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ;  it  is  fit  65 

The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ  is  writ  — 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been  —  and  my  visions  flit  70 

Less  palpably  before  me  —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 


Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger; — yet  —  farewell! 
Ye !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene  75 

Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,   not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  ///;;/  alone  may  rest  the  pain,  80 

If  such  there  were — with  you,   the  moral  of  his  strain. 


152  BYRON. 


[THE     ISLES     OF     GREECE.] 
DON   JUAN,    CANTO    HI. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sapplio  loved  and  sung, 
vVhere  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet,  5 

But  all,   3xcept  their  sun,  is  set. 

Tlie  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 

The  hero's    harp,   the  lover's  lute. 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute  10 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone,  15 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ;  20 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 

And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou,  25 

My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 
And  must  thy  lyre,   so  long  divine. 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine?  30 


DON   JUAN.  153 

'Tis  something,  in  the  deartli  of  fame, 

Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race. 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 

Even  as  I  sing,   suffuse  my  face ; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here?  35 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  ive  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  uoe  but  blush?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  40 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah  !    no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall,  45 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain;  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  !  50 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet,  55 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave?  60 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ; 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then  65 

Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


154  BYKOiV. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend  70 

Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On   Suli's  rock,   and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line  75 

Such   as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells :  80 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  !  85 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 

I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves.  90 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  sla\es  shall  ne'er  be  mine —  95 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 


HEBREW   MELODIES.  155 


SHE    WALKS    IN    BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,   like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies : 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light  5 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,   one  ray  the  less. 

Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace, 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ;  10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express, 

How  pure,   how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,   and  o'er  that  brow. 

So  soft,   so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,   the  tints  that  glow,  15 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


SONG    OF    SAUL    BEFORE    HIS    LAST    BATTLE, 

Warriors  and  chiefs !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,   in  your  path  : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow,  5 

Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe. 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in   blood  at  thy  feet  ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part. 

Heir  to  my  royalty,   son  of  my  heart !  lO 

Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway. 

Or  kingly  the  death,   which  awaits  us  to-day! 


EATS. 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.    AGNES. 

I. 
St.   Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,   bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,   was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limpYl  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,   and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,   while  his  prayer  he  saith. 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man;  lo 

Then  takes  his  lamp,   and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,   meagre,  barefoot,   wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured    dead    on  each  side  seemed  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  :  1 5 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orafries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

III. 
Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door. 
And  scarce  three  steps,   ere  Music's  golden   tongue  20 

FlatterVl  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no  —  already  had  his  death-bell  mng ; 

(156) 


THE    EVE    OE   ST.   AGNES.  157 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  souPs  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 


That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.      Soon,   up  aloft,  30 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 

Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their 
breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,   new-stuff'd,   in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay  40 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,   to  one  Lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.   Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare.  45 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night. 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright;  50 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white. 
Nor  look  behind,   nor  sideways,   but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


158  KEATS. 


Full  of  tliis  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline:  55 

The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
Slie  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fi.x'd  on  the  floor,   saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :   in  vain 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier,  60 

And  back  retired ;  not  cooPd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :   her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


She  danced  along  with  vague  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short :  65 

The  hallow'd    hour  was  near  at  hand :   she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throngVl  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,   hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy ;  all  amort,  70 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.      Meantime,   across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,   with  heart  on  fire  75 

For  Madeline.      Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from   moonlight,   stands  he,   and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 

That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ;  80 

Perchance  speak,   kneel,   touch,   kiss  —  in  sooth  such  things 
have  been. 


He  ventures  in  :   let  no  buz/.'d  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffied,  or  a  hundred  swords 


THE    EVE    OF   ST.   AGNES  159 


Will  storm  his  heart,   Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
P'or  him,   those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes,  85 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :   not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,   in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old   beldame,   weak  in  body  and  in  soul.  90 

XI. 

Ah,   happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came 
Sliuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,   hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland :  95 

He  startled  her ;   but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,    "Mercy,   Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,   the  whole  bloodthirsty  race ! 

XII. 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's   dwarfish   Hildebrand:  100 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 

Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,   not  a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away," — "Ah,  Gossip  dear,  105 

We're  safe  enough  ;   here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how"  —  "Good  Saints.'    not  here,   not  here; 
Follow  me,   child,   or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ;  110 

And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  m.oonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom  115 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


160  KEATS. 


"St.  Agnes!     Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 

Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve,  120 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so  :   it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,   Porphyro  !  —  St.   Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night:   good  angels  her  deceive!  125 

Ikit  let  me  laugh  awhile,   I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  ag6d  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book,  130 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,   when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
.'\nd  iMadeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old.  135 


Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
P'lushing  his  brow,   and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :   then  doth   he  propose 
A  stratagem,   that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art:  140 

Sweet  lady,   let  her  pray,   and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,   far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.      Go,   go  !   I   deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  tliou  didst  seem." 


"I   will   not  harm   lier,   by  all  saints  I  swear,"  145 

Ouoth  Porphyro:    '•  O   may  I   ne'er  find  grace 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.   A  GIVES.  161 

When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 

Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears;  150 

Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though    they  be  more  fangVl    than  wolves  and 
bears." 


"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,   church-yard  thing,  155 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,   each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never  miss'd."     Thus  plaining,   doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 

So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  160 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


Which  was,   to  lead  him,   in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

Tliat  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met,  170 

Since  Merlin  paid  his   Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 


"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the   Dame: 

"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night :   by  the  tambour  frame 

Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:    no  time  to  spare,  175 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 


1 62  KE^l  TS. 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,   my  child,   with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead."  i8o 


So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  ag^d  eyes  aghast 

From  fright  of  dim  espial.      Safe  at  last,  i8'5 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,   silken,   hush'd  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,   pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  witli  agues  in  her  brain. 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  190 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
Wlicn   Madeline,   St.   Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,   like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 

She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led  195 

To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,   for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled. 


Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 

Its  little  smoke,   in  pallid  moonshine,   died  :  200 

She  clo-sed  the  door,  .she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  utter'd  syllable,   or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,   her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ;  205 

As  though   a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat   in  vain,   and  die,   heart-stifled,   in  her  dell. 


THE    EVE    OF   ST.   AGNES.  163 


XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass,  210 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  sjDlendid  dyes. 
As  are  th-;  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,   'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings,  2 1  5 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 


Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,   together  prest,  220 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,   for  heaven: — Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,   so  pure  a  thing,   so  free  from  mortal  taint.  225 


Anon  his  heart  revives :   her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.   Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


Soon,   trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest,  235 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,   and  soul  fatigued  away ; 


164  KEATS. 


Flown,   like  a  thought,   until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ;  240 

Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  sliould  shut,   and  be  a  bud  again. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 

Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress,  245 

And  listcn'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,   that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness  250 

And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  "tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo !  —  how  fast  she 
slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bedside,   where   the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,   silver  twiliglit,   soft   he  set 

A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,   threw  thereon  255 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet  ! 
The  boisterous,   midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 

Affray  his  ears,   though  but  in  dying  tone  :  —  260 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,   and  all  the   noise  is  ijone. 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,   smooth,  and    lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,   quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd;  265 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrups,   tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,   in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,   every  one. 
From  silken   Samarcand  to  cedar'd    Lebanon.  270 


THE    F.VR    OF   ST.   AGNES.  16 ■ 


XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:   sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  —  275 

"And  now,   my  love,   my  seraph  fair,   awake! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,   and  I   thine  eremite  : 
Open  t'liine  eyes,   for  meek  St.   Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,   his   warm,   unnerved  arm  280 

Sank  in  her  pillow.      Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies:  285 

It  seem'd  he  never,   never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,   entoil'd  in  woof^d  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,   he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous, — and,   in  chords  that  tenderest  be,  290 

He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  "La   belle  dame  sans  mercy:" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ;  — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,   she  utter'd  a  soft  moan: 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick — and  suddenly  295 

Her  blue  affray6d  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 

Now  wide  awake,   the  vision  of  her  sleep : 

There  was  a  painful  change,   that  nigh   expell'd  300 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 


166  A-EATS. 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joindd  hands  and  piteous  eye,  305 

P'caring  to  move  or  speak,   she  looked  so  dreamingly. 


••Ah,  PorphjTO ! "  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Tny  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
M  ade  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

And  chose  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear:  310 

How  changed  thou  art!    how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,   my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings   dear  ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 
For  if  thou  diest,   my  Love,   I  know  not  where  to  go."  315 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose : 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :    meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;    St.    Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


'Tis  dark :   quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet :  325 

"  This  is  no  dream,   my  bride,   my  Madeline  !  " 
'Tis  dark :  the  ic^d  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  -^- 
Cmcl !    wliat  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring?  330 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived   thing;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  uni)runcd  wing." 


THE    EVE    OF   ST.   AGNES.  167 


"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 
Say,   may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest?  335 

Tliy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil    dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,   here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,   I  will  not  rob  thy  nest  340 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;    if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,   fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 


"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,   but  a  boon   indeed : 

Arise  —  arise  !  the  morning   is  at  hand  ;  —  345 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed ;  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see  — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and   the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake  !    arise  !    my  love,   and  fearless  be,  350 

For  o'er  tlie  southern  moors  I   have  a  home  for  thee." 


She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found;  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,   rich  with  horseman,   hawk,   and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor.  360 


They  glide,   like  phantoms,   into  the  wide  hall; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,   in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 


168  KEATS. 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By    one   and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone:    ay,    ages  long  ago  37° 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old  375 

Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves   told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


ODE   TO    A   NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,   and    Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-wingdd  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delv6d  earth. 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  tlie  country-green. 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sun-ljurnt  mirth  ! 


ODE     TO    A    NIGHTINGALE.  169 


0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  15 
Full  of  the  true,   the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim :  20 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,   and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last   gray  hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,   and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  lie  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.  30 

Away !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and   his  pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night,  35 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 

Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light. 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 

Tnrough  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways.     40 

1  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed   darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,   the  thicket,   and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ;  45 

White  hawthorn,   and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,   full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.  50 


170  KEATS. 

Darkling  I  listen;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Caird  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mus^d  rime, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to   die,  55 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,   and   I   have  ears  in  vain  — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  i)atli  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,   when  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,   opening  on  tlie  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,   deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  7  5 

Past  the  near  meadows,   over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  His  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music:  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep?  80 


ON  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER.  Yi\ 


ON  FIRST    LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S    HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travelPd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen : 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  5 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;  10 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien.  14 


SHELLEY. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS. 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 

Or  the  mariner,   worn  and  wan. 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on  — 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day,  5 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 

Whilst  above,   the  sunless  sky. 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily,  10 

And  behind,  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,   and  plank. 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep;  15 

And  sinks  down,   down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore  20 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will. 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun. 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave  25 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,   if  there  no  friends  will  greet  ? 

(■172) 


AMONG     THE    EU  GAME  AN   HILLS.  173 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat  ? 

Wander  wheresoever  he  may,  30 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 

Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no.  35 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold. 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill ; 

Every  little  living  nerve  40 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea  45 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep. 

Lies  a  solitary  heap. 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones,  50 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews',  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ;  55 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides. 

Those  unburied  bones  around  60 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him. 

Like  a  sunless  vapour,   dim. 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not.  65 


174  SHELLEY. 


Ay,   many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony. 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led, 

My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean  70 

I  stood  listening  to  the  pasan. 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar. 

Thro'  the  dewy  mist  they  soar  75 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky. 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain,  80 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods. 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Thro'  the  broken  mist  they  sail,  85 

And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming. 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still. 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea  90 

The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 

Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 

Islanded  by  cities  fair. 

Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies,  95 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls. 

Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 

With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 

Lo  !    the  sun  upsprings  behind,  100 

Broad,   red,   radiant,  half  reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 

Of  the  waters  crystalline ; 


AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN   HILLS.  175 

And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 

As  within  a  furnace  bright,  105 

Column,  tower,  and  dome,   and  spire, 

Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 

Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 

From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 

To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies ;  no 

As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 

From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 

Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,   thou  hast  been  1 1 5 

Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen ; 

Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 

And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 

If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 

Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier.  120 

A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 

With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 

Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 

From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 

Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew  1 25 

Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew. 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state ; 

Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 

With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown  130 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 

Wandering  at  the  close  of  day,  135 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 

Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death  14c 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 


176  SHELLEY. 


Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 

Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 

As  I  now  behold  them  here, 

Would  imagine  not  they  were  145 

Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 

Like  pollution-nourished  worms 

To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 

Murdered,  and  now  mouldering. 

But  if  Freedom  should  awake  ,  150 

In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 

From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 

All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold. 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,   ingloriously,  155 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 

Twining  memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  more  sublime. 

If  not,   perish  thou  and  they  ! —  160 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away  — 

Earth  can  spare  ye ;  while  like  flowers, 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours. 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring  165 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish  —  let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally,  170 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan ;  — 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion,  175 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams. 

Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him   witli  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,   and  sprung  180 


AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN   HILLS.  177 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 

Chastening  terror.     What  though  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  River, 

Which  thro'  Albion  winds  for  ever  185 

Lashing  with  melodious  wave 

Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave, 

Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled? 

What  though  thou  with  all    thy  dead 

Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay  190 

Aught  thine  own?    oh,  rather  say 

Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul? 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs;  195 

As  divinest  Shakespere's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 

Like  omniscient  power  which  he 

Imaged  'mid  mortality ; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn,  200 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly ;  —  so  thou  art 

Mighty  spirit  !  so  shall  be 

The  City  that  did  refuge  thee.  205 

Lo,   the  sun  floats  up    the  sky 

Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 

Till  the  universal  light 

Seems  to  level  plain  and  height. 

From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread,  210 

And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 

On  the  towers  of  Venice  now,    • 

Like  its  glory  long  ago. 

By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 

Many-dom^d  Padua  proud  215 

Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 

'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain. 

Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 


178  SHELLEY. 


In  the  garner  of  his  foe, 

And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow  220 

With  the  purple  vintage  strain. 

Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 

That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 

Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 

And  the  sickle  to  the  sword  225 

Lies  unchanged,   though  many  a  lord, 

Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison. 

Overgrows  this  region's  foison. 

Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 

To  destruction's  harvest  home.  230 

Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 

Force  from  force  must  ever  flow. 

Or  worse ;    but  His  a  bitter  woe 

That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 

The  despot's  rage,   the  slave's  revenge.  235 

Padua,  thou  within  w'hose  walls 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 

Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 

Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 

Till  Death    cried,   "I  win,   I  win!"  240 

And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 

But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 

That  he  would  petition  for 

Her  to  be   made  Vice-Emperor, 

When  the  destined  years  were  o'er,  245 

Over  all  between  the  Po 

And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 

Under- the  mighty  Austrian. 

Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 

And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before,  250 

Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore  — 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 

Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow. 

As   Repentance  follows  Crime, 

And  as  changes  follow  Time.  255 


AMONG    THE   EUGANEAN  HILLS.  179 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day. 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray.  260 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique   light  265 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells,  270 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born ; 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead,  275 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  myriad  tongues  victoriously. 

And  sinks  down  in  fear ;  —  so  thou, 

O  Tyranny,  beholdest  now  280 

Light  around  thee,   and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,   and  fearest. 

Grovel  on  the  earth ;    ay,   hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now.  285 

'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst. 

Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far  290 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky. 


180  '  SHELLEY. 


And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden  295 

Where  the  infant  Frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  \-ines. 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines  300 

The  rough,   dark-skirted  wilderness; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air;   the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;    the  line  305 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  betAveen  the  clouds  and  sun  ■ 

And  of  living  things  each  one ;  310 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song,  — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky: 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony,  315 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall. 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon  3-0 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon. 

Leading  the  infantine  moon. 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems   to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings  325 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

''Mid  remembered  agonies,  330 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 


AMONG     THE    EUGANEAN   HILLS.  181 

Pass,  to  other   sufferers  fleeing. 
And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be  335 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony: 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulph ;    even  now,  perhaps. 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit  340 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guUt,  345 

In  a  dell  -mid  lawny  hills. 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fiUs, 

And  soft  simshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine  350 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

We  may  live  so  happy  there. 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Env}ing  us,  mriy  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise  355 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  upUfted  soul,  and  leaves  36c 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies,  365 

And  the  love  which  heals  aU  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood : 


182  SHELLEY. 


They,   not  it  would  change ;   and  soon  370 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 
Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 
And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


THE   CLOUD. 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken  5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,   and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,   under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 


THE    CLOUD.  183 


And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the   lit  sea  beneath. 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orb^d  maiden  with  white  fire  laden,  45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;  60 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 
When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 

From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea. 


184  SHELLEY. 

Sunbeam-proof,   I  hang  like  a  roof,  — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

1  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

1  arise  and  unbuild  it  ajjain. 


TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  tliou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springcst 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  185 


In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun.  15 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  —  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  —  we  feel  that  it  is  there.  25 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare," 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed.       30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not  j 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  sliowers  a  rain  of  melody.  ■35 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not :  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,   which  overflows  her  bower:  45 


186  SHELLEY. 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
I3y  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves : 


50 


55 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,   thy  music  doth  surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine.  65 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,   or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain?  75 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  187 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest ;    but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad    satiety.  80 

Waking    or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  tme  and   deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream?  85 


We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is   not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  tliat  tell  of  saddest  thought.        90 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near.  95 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground!  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must    know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From   my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now.  105 


188  SHELLE  Y. 


SONNET.  — TO   THE   NILE. 

Month  after  month  the  gathered  rains  descend 

Drenching  yon  secret  Ethiopian  dells, 

And  from  the  desert's  ice-girt  pinnacles 

Where  Frost  and  Heat  in  strange  embraces  blend 

On  Atlas,  fields  of  moist  snow  half  depend ; 

Girt  there  with  blasts  and  meteors  Tempest  dwells 

By  Nile's  aerial  urn,  with  rapid  spells 

Urging  those  waters  to  their  mighty  end. 

O'er  Egypt's  land  of  Memory  floods  are  level 

And  they  are  thine,   O  Nile — and  well  thou  knowest 

That  soul-sustaining  airs  and  blasts  of  evil 

And  fruits  and  poisons  spring  where'er  thou  flowest. 

Beware,  O  Man  —  for  knowledge  must  to  thee 

Like  the  great  flood  to  Egypt,  ever  be. 


SONNET.  — OZYMANDIAS. 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
WIio  said :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand. 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,   whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command, 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
Tlie  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed. 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
♦'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair ! " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


WORDSWORTH. 


TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL 

AT   INVERSNEYDE,    UPON   LOCH    LOMOND. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head : 

And  these  grey  rocks ;  that  household  lawn ;  5 

Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn ; 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake ; 

This  little  bay;  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode—  10 

In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream; 

Such  Forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

But,   O  fair  Creature!  in  the  light  '     1 5 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart ; 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years! 

Thee,  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers ;  20 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away : 
For  never  saw  I  mien,   or  face. 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace  25 

(189) 


]  9  0  WORDS  IVOR  TH. 


Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 

Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 

Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 

The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress,  3c 

And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 

Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 

The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer : 

A  face  with  gladness  overspread ! 

Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred!  35 

And  seemliness  complete,   that  sways 

Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 

With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 

From  quick  and  eager  visitings 

Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach  4c 

Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 

A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 

That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life ! 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind  —  45 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful? 
O  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 

Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ;  50 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 
A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave  55 

Of  the  wild  sea ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,   if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 
Thy  elder  Brother  I  would  be,  60 

Thy  Father — anything  to  thee! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 


TO    A    SKY-LARK.  191 

I  bear  away  my  recompence.  6^ 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  Memory:   feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 

Then,   why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past,  70 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loth,   though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl!  from  thee  to  part: 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old. 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold,  75 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall; 

And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 


TO    A   SKY-LARK. 

Up  with  me !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

For  thy  song,   Lark,   is  strong; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

Singing,  singing. 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind  ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary; 

Had  I  now  tne  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting- place  in  the  sky.  1 5 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 


10 


192  WOA'DS  IVOR  TH. 


And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 

Dmnken  Lark !  thou  would'st  be  loth  20 

To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 

Happy,  happy  Liver. 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both !  25 

A.las  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven. 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind ; 

But  hearing  thee,  or  others  ot"  thy  kind, 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,   with  my  fate  contented,   will  plod  on,  30 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is  doni. 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

O  BLITHE  New-comer!  I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 
O  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird. 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass  5 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear. 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass. 

At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  tlie  Vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers,  10 

Thou  bringest  unto  mc  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  l)ird,   but  an  invisible    thing,  15 

A  voice,   a  mystery; 


riNTERN  ABBEY.  103 


The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listened  to ;    that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky.  20 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 

Still  longed  for,   never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ;  25 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,   till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 

O  liless^d  Bird !  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be  30 

An  unsubstantial,   faery  place  ; 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee ! 


LINES 


COMPOSED   A   FEW   MILES   ABOVE   TINTERN    ABBEY,    OX    REVISITING 
THE    BANKS    OF    THE   WYE    DURING   A    TOUR.      JULY    I3,     1 798. 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,   witli  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.   — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliiTs,  5 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  whea  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view  10 

These  idiots  of  cottage-ground,   these  orchard-tufts. 

Which  at  this  season,   with  their  unripe   fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  "reen  hue,  and  lose  themselves 


194  WORDSWORTH. 


'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,   hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines  15 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :   these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,   in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,   where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone.     These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 

As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 

But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din  25 

Of  towns  and  cities,   I   have  owed  to  them 

In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 

Felt  in  the  blood,   and  felt  along  the  heart ; 

And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 

With  tranquil  restoration  :  —  feelings  too  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure  :   such,   perhaps. 

As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 

On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 

His  little,   nameless,  unremembered  acts 

Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,   I  trust,  35 

To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 

Of  aspect  more  sublime ;   that  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened  :  —  that  serene  and  biessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 

Until,   the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep  45 

Li  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,   and  tlie  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things.     If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !  how  oft  —  50 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  sliapcs 

Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 


TINTERN   ABBEY.  195 


Unprofitable,   and  the  fever  of  the  world, 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  — 

How  oft,   in  spirit,   have  I  turned  to  thee,  55 

0  sylvan  Wye  !  thou  wanderer   thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned   to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint. 

And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 

While  here  I  stand,   not  only  with  the  sense 

Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope,  65 

Though  changed,   no  doubt,   from  what  I   was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 

Wherever  nature  led :   more  like  a  man  70 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,   than  one 

Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.      For  nature  then 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all.  —  I  cannot  paint  75 

What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion ;  the  tall  rock. 

The  mountain,   and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood. 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,   were  then  to  me 

An  appetite ;   a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,   nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this  85 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;   other  gifts 

Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,   I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.      For  1   have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,   not  as  in  the   hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;   but  hearing  oftentimes  90 

The  still,   sad  music  of  humanity, 


19G  WORDSWORTH. 


Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime  95 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  stiil 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth;   of  all  the  mighty  world  105 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  iio 

Of  all  my  moral  being.     Nor  perchance. 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 

Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 

For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 

Of  this  fair  river;  thou  my  dearest  Friend,  115 

My  dear,   dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  1  catch 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 

My  former  pleasures  in  the  shdoting  lights 

Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 

May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  l.'^o 

My  dear,   dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I   make, 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her ;  His  her  privilege. 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform  125 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thouglits,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,   nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,   nor  all  130 


LA  OD  A  MIA.  197 


The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.      Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk;  135 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee :  and,   in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  sliall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;   when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;   oh  !  then. 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,  145 

And  these  my  exhortations !     Nor,  perchance  — 

If  I  should  be  where  I   no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,   nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  150 

We  stood  together;   and  that  I,   so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,   hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service :   rather  say 

With  warmer  love  —  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget,  155 

That  after  many  wanderings,   many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,   were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 


LAODAMIA. 

"With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 

Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 

And  from  the  infernal  Gods,   'mid  shades  forlorn 

Of  night,   my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required: 

Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  ;  — 

Restore  him   to  my  sight  —  great  Jove,   restore!" 


198  WORDS  IVOR  TH. 


So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands ; 

While,  Hke  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  —  and  her  eye  expands;  lo 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0  terror !  what  hath  she  perceived  ?  —  O  joy  ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ?  —  whom  doth  she  behold  ? 

Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ?  i  5 

His  vital  presence  ?  his  corporeal  mould  ? 
It  is  —  if  sense  deceive  her  not  —  "tis  He! 
And  a  God  leads  him,  winged  Mercury ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake  —  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 

That  calms  all  fear ;    "  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy  prayer,  20 

Laodamia !  that  at  Jove's  command 

Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air : 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space ; 

Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face  ! " 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to  clasp;       25 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  Phantom  parts  —  but  parts  to  re-unite. 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight.  30 

"  Protesilaus,   lo '  thy  guide  is  gone! 

Confirm,   1  pray,   tlie  vision  with  thy  voice : 

This  is  our  palace,  —  yonder  is  thy  throne; 

Speak ;  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 

Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed  35 

This  precious  boon,  and  blest  a  sad  abode." 

"Great  Jove,   Laodamia!  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect :  —  Spectre  thougli  I  be, 

1  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

Ikit  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity.  40 

And  something  also  did  my  wortli  ol^tain ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 


LA  OD A  MIA.  199 


"  Thou  knowest,   the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold  :  45 

A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain  ; 

A  self-devoted  chief  —  by  Hector  slain." 

"Supreme  of  Heroes  —  bravest,   noblest,  best! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more,  50 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found'st  -^  and  I  forgive  thee  —  here  thou  art  — • 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

"But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed,  55 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,   and  good  as  brave ; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,   hath  decreed 

Thou  should'st  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave  : 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched   Thessalian  air.  60 

"No  Spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain  Shadow  this; 

Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side  ! 

Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 

To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride  ! " 

Jove  frowned  in  heaven :  the  conscious    Parcre  threw  65 

Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past: 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,   even  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.     Earth  destroys  70 

Those  raptures  duly  —  Erebus  disdains  : 

Calm  pleasure.^  there  abide  —  majestic  pains. 

"Be  taught,   O  faithful  Consort,  to  control 

Rebellious  passion :   for  the  Gods  approve 

The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul;  75 

A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate ;   and  meekly  mourn 

When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn — " 


200  WORDSWORTH. 


"Ah,  wherefore?  —  Did  not  Hercules  by  force 

Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb  So 

Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 

And  /Eson  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 

"The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful  —  and  they  S5 

Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier  far 

Tlian  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,   or  the  sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star. 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest. 

And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast.       90 

"But  if  thou  goest,   I  follow  — "  "Peace!"  he  said, — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 

The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace,  95 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 

In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure; 

No  fears  to  beat  away  —  no  strife  to  heal  — 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ;  100 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous  —  imaged  there 

In  happier  beauty ;   more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air,  105 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue.  —  "111,"  said  he,  no 

"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night ; 


LAODAMIA.  201 


' '  And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes  1 1 5 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 

By  martial  sports,  —  or,   seated  in  the  tent, 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained ; 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained.  120 

"The  wished-for  wind  was  given:  —  1   then  revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  tlie  way,  resolved 

That,   of  a  thousand  vessels,   mine  should  be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand, —  135 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"Yet  bitter,   oft-times  bitter,   was  tlie  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I   thought,   beloved  Wife  ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang. 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, —  130 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod  —  these  fountains,   flowers, 

My  new-planned  cities,   and  unfinished  towers.. 

"But  should  suspense  permit  the  I'oe  to  cry, 

'  Behold  they  tremble  !  —  haughty  tlieir  array, 

Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ?'  135 

In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away : 

Old  frailties  then  recurred  :  —  but  lofty  tliought, 

In  act  embodied,   my  deliverance  wrought. 

"  And  Thou,   though  strong  in  love,   art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,   in  self-government  too  slow;  140 

1   counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympatliised ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

"Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend —  145 

Seeking  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given, 

Encouraged,   sanctioned,   cliiefly  for  that  end ; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven  — 

That  self  might  be  annulled  :   her  bondage  prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream,   opposed  to  love."' —  15a 


202  WORDSWORTH. 

Aloud  she  shrieked !   for  Hermes  reappears ! 

Round  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung  —  'tis  vain: 

The  hours  are  past  —  too  brief  had  they  been  years  ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day,  1 5  5 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain    exhorted  and  reproved, 

She  perished ;  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 

By  the  just  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved,  160 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 

Apart  from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 

Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

—  Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  overthrown  165 

Are  mourned  by  man,   and  not  by  man  alone, 

As  fondly  he  believes.  —  Upon  the  side 

Of  Hellespont   (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A  knc'   of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died ;  1 70 

And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 

That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view. 

The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight ; 

A  constant  interchange  of  s^rowth  and  bliirht ! 


ODE. 

INTIMATICWG    OK     IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOLLECTIONS    OF     EAKLV 
CHILDHOOD. 

I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight. 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 


ODE.  203 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  — 
Turn  wlieresoe''er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  tilings  which  I  Iiave  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  xo 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair  ;  1 5 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,   where'er  I   go. 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


Now,   while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  cataracts  blow  their' tnunpets  from  the  steep;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  tlirong. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  lioliday :  — 
Tliou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  rounil  me,   let  me  hear  tliy  sliouts,   tliou   happy        35 
Shepherd-boy ! 


204  WORDS  IVOR  TIL 


Ye  blessed  Creatures,   I   have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;   I   see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
f  he  fulness  of  your  bliss,   I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day  !  if  I   were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning,  45 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side. 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm. 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm  :  —  50 

I  hear,   I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

—  But  there's  a  Tree,   of  many  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet  5  c, 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,   the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,   our  life's  Star,  60 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  Cometh  from  afar : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come  61; 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Ikavcn  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,   and   wlicnce  it   flows,  70 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 


ODE.  205 

The  Youth,   who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,   still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And    by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended;  75 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of   common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 

And,   even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind.  So 

And    no  vuiworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  gloriec  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  85 


Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 

See,   where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  Mother's  kisses. 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  Father's  eyes  !  90 

See,  at  his  feet,   some  little  plan  or  chart. 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learn6d  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ;  Qr 

And  this    hath  now  his  heart. 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his    tongue     . 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,   or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long  100 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his   ' '  humorous  stage " 
With  all  the  Persons,   down  to  palsied  Age,  lo:; 


206  IVORDSWORTH. 


That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  dotli  belie 

Tliy  SouPs  immensity ;  no 

Thou  best  Philosophei,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,   deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

IMighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest  !  115 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Wliich  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,  120 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke,  125 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,   and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

IX. 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live. 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 

Perpetual  benediction:   not  indeed  135 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest  — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast :  - 

Not  for  these  I   raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 


ODE.  207 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature  145 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  aftections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections,  150 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being  1 5  5 

Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,   nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither,  165 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May!  175 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  tlie  hour 


208  WORDS  IVOR  TH. 


Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  iSo 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering;  185 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,   Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might;  igo 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day  195 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.  200 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


ODE    TO    DUTY. 

'  Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 
Tliou,   who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 


ODE    TO    DUTY.  209 


From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  luimanity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  tliem;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  lo 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,   and  know  it  not : 

Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced  1 5 

They  fail,  thy  saving   arms,  dread  Power  !  around 
tliem  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security.  2C 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,   loving  freedom,   and  untried;  25 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,   I   deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if   1  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

i  supplicate  for  thy  control ;  35 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

T  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  40 


210  WORDSWORTH. 


Stern   Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  45 

And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power!  50 

I  call  thee :   I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise. 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ;  5  5 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  ! 


SONNET.  — TO    MILTON. 

Milton  !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour : 

England  hath  need  of  thee  :   she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters :   altar,  sword,  and  pen. 

Fireside,   the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower  5 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 

Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,   power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea;  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


MACAULAY 


HORATIUS. 

A    LAY    MADE    ABOUT    THE    YEAR    OF    THE    CITY    CCCLX. 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong   no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  soutli  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 


East  and  west  and  south  and  north  lo 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home,  15 

When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 


III. 


The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place : 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain ; 


212  AfACAULAY. 


From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,   hid  by  beech  and    pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,   hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine  ;  25 

:v. 
From  lordly  Volaterra;, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old ; 
From  seagirt  Populonia,  30 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern   sky ; 

V. 
From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisit, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves,  35 

Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves ; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers  ; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven  40 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 

VI. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auscr's  rill ; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill;  45 

Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear ; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

VII. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman  50 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 


If  OR  ATT  us.  213 


Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer;  55 

Unharmed  the  water  fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian   mere. 

VIII. 
The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap, 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro  60 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep ; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome.  65 

IX. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  always  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand  : 
Evening  and  morn  the   Thirty  70 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  wliite 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

X. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given :  75 

'  Go  forth,  go  forth,   Lars  Porsena ; 

Go  forth,   beloved  of  Heaven ; 
Go,   and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium''s  royal  dome ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars  80 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome.' 

XI. 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand. 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten :  85 


214  MA  CAUL  AY. 


Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars    Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

xir. 
For  all  the  Etruscan  armies  90 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally ; 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came  95 

The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

XIII. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign  100 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways : 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days.  105 

XIV. 

For  ag6d  folks  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters  no 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

XV. 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  witli  skins  of  wine,  115 

And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep. 

And  endless  herds  of  kine. 


HO  RATI  us.  215 


And  endless  trains  of  waggons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods,  120 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

xvr. 
Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky.  125 

The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

XVII. 

To  eastward    and  to  westward  130 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands ; 
Nor  house,   nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain;  135 

Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

XVIII. 

I  wis,   in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold. 
But  sore  it  ached  and  fast  it  beat,  140 

When  tliat  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall.  145 

XIX. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the   River-Gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess. 

For  musinjr  or  debate. 


216  MACAULAY. 


Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly:  150 

'  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down ; 

For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town.' 


Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear;  155 

'  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  Sir  Consul : 

Lars  Porsena  is  here.'' 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust  160 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

XXI. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud,  165 

Is  heard  the  trumpefs  war-note  proud. 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and   more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears. 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right,  170 

In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright. 

The  long  array  of  spears. 


And  plainly  and  more  plainly. 

Above  that  glimmering  line,  175 

Now  might  ye  see  the  banners, 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine ; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all. 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian,  180 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 


HORATWS.  217 


And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Each  warlike  Lucumo.  185 

There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen ; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold  190 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 


Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

Overlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium  195 

Sat  in  his    ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 
And  by  the  left,  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame.  200 

XXV. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tojDS  was  no  woman  205 

But  spat  towards  him  and    hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shot)k  its  little  fist. 


But  the    Consul's  brow  was  sad, 
And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 

And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall. 
And  darkly  at    the  foe. 


218  M.ICAULAY. 


'  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down : 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge,  215 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ? ' 

XXVII. 

Then  out  sjDake  brave   Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate  : 
'  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late.  220 

And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful   odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers. 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

XXVIII. 

'And  for  the  tender  motlier  225 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast. 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame,  230 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 

XXIX. 

'  Hew  down  the  bridge,   Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me,  235 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?'  24c 

XXX. 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius ; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
'  Lo,   I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.' 


H  OR  AT  I  us.  219 


And  out  spake  strong  Herminius ;  245 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
'  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.' 

XXXI. 

'  Horatius,'  quoth  the  Consul, 

'As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be.'  250 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,   nor  limb  nor  life,  255 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXII. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor. 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great :  260 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  Isrothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIII. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman  265 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers    grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction. 

In  battle  we  wax  cold :  270 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIV. 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs. 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man  275 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe : 


220  MA  CAUL  AY. 


And  Fathers,  mixed  with  Commons, 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below.  280 


Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold. 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold.  285 

Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee. 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread. 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread. 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head,         290 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 


The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent. 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  :  295 

And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew. 

And  lifted  high  their  shields,   and  flew 
To  win  the  narrow  way ;  300 


Aunus  from  green  Tifernum 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines ; 
And  Seius,   whose  eight  hundred  s?aves 

Sicken  in   Ilva's  mines ; 
And   Picus,   long  to  Clusium  305 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war. 


HGRATIUS.  221 


Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 

From  that  grey  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 

The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar.  310 


Stout   Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath: 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him   to  the  teeth : 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius  315 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 


Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three ;  320 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar. 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den  325 

Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen. 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men. 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 


Herminius  smote  down  Aruns : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low :  33c 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
'  Lie  there,'  he  cried,    '  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark  335 

The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more   Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail.' 


222  MA  CAUL  AY. 


But  now  no  sound  of  laughter  340 

Was  heard  among  the  foes, 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamour 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array,  345 

And  for  a  space  no  man    came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 


But  hark !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide ; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna  350 

Comes  with   his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield. 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which    none  but  he  can  wield.  355 


He  smiled  on  tliose  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,    '  The  she-wolfs  litter  360 

Stand  savagely  at  bay : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way?' 


Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height,  365 

He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 


HORA  TIUS.  228 

The  blow,   though  turned,   came  yet  too  nigh;  370 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 
To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

XLV. 

He  reeled,   and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space;  375 

Then,  like  a  wild  cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face  ; 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,   and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped. 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out         380 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head.  ^^_^ 

XLVI. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak.  385 

Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XLVII. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius  390 

Rigiit  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
And  see,'  he  cried,    '  the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  !  395 

What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer?' 

XLVIII. 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 
Mingled  of  wrath  and  sli.ame  and  dread,  400 

Alonj;  that  glitterinij  van. 


224  MA  CAUL  AY. 


There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place.  405 

XLIX. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance  410 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware. 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear  415 

Lies  amidst    bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack : 
But  those  behind  cried  '  Forward ! ' 

And  those  before  cried  '  Back  ! '  420 

And    backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel. 

To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal  425 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

LI. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud :  430 

'  Now  welcome,  welcome,   Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Wh\-  dost  thou  stay,   and  turn  away? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome.' 


HORATIUS.  225 


Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city;  435 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread : 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way,  440 

Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

LIII. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering  445 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
'  Come  back,  come    back,   Horatius  ! ' 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all ; 
'  Back,   Lartius  !    back,   Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall ! '  450 

LIV. 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius ; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces,  455 

And  on  the  farther   shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone. 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

LV. 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam,  460 

And,   like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart    the  stream. 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest   turret-tops  465 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 


226  MACAULAY. 


LVI. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane,  470 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free, 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea.  475 

LVII. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before. 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

♦  Down  with  him  ! '  cried  false  Sextus,  480 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 

*  Now  yield  thee,'  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

'  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace.' 

LVIII. 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ;  485 

Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river  490 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome: 

LIX. 

♦Oh,  Tiber!  father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,   a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day ! '  495 

So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side. 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 


IIORA  TIUS.  ^27 


LX. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow  500 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  iDarted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  wlien  above  the  surges  505 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 


LXI. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current,  5IQ 

Swoilen  high  by  months  of  rain : 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 
And  heavy  with  his  armour. 

And  spent  with  changing  blows :  515 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

LXII. 

Never,   I  ween,  did  swimmer. 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood  520 

Safe  to  the  landing  place  : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within. 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin.  525 


Curse  on  him  ! '  quoth  false  Sextus ; 

'  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 
We  should  have  sacked  the  town ! ' 


228  AfACAULAY. 


'  Heaven  help  him  ! '  quoth  Lars  Porsena,         530 
'  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before.' 

LXIV. 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands;  535 

Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now,   with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate,  .  540 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

LXV. 
They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land. 

That  was  of  public  right. 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night;  545 

And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high. 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

LXVI. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium,  55c 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see ; 
Horatius  in  his  harness. 

Halting  upon  one  knee : 
And  underneath  is  written. 

In  letters  all  of  gold,  553 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVII. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them  56c 

To  charge  the  Volscian   home ; 


HO  RATI  us.  229 


And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old.  565 

LXVIII. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter. 

When  the  cold  north  winds    blow,    • 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage  570 

Roars  loud   the  tempesfs  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within; 

LXIX. 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ;  575 

When  the  chestnuts    glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets,  580 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

LXX. 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour. 

And  trims  his  helmet\s  plume ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through   the  loom;  585 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

la  the  brave  days  of  old. 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH. 


QUA   CURSUM    VENTUS. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,   lliat  lay 

With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 

When  fell  the   night,   upsprung  the  breeze,  5 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 

By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side. 

E'en  so  —  Init  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged,  10 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 

And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  — 
Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed,  15 

Or  wist,   what  first  with  dawn  appeared  ! 

To  veer,   how  vain !     On,  onward  strain, 

Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides  — 

To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.  20 

But  O  blithe  breeze  !  and  O  great  seas, 

Though  ne'er,  tliat  earliest  parting  past. 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

(230) 


MARI   MAC  NO,    OR     TALES    ON   BOARD.  231 

One  port,   methought,   alike  they  sought,  25 

One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 
O  bounding  breeze,   O  rushing    seas  ! 

At  last,  at  last,  unite   them  there ! 


MARI    MAGNO,    OR   TALES    ON   BOARD. 

[PROLOGUE.] 

A  YOUTH  was  I.     An  elder  friend  with  me, 
'Twas  in  September  o'er  the  autumnal  sea 
We  went ;  the  wide  Atlantic  ocean  o'er 
Two  amongst  many  the  strong  steamer  bore. 

Delight  it  was  to  feel  that  wondrous  force  5 

That  held  us  steady  to  our  purposed  course 
The  burning  resolute  victorious  will 
'Gainst  winds  and  waves  that  strive  unwavering  still. 
Delight  it  was  with  each  returning  day 

To  learn  the  ship  had  won  upon  her  way  10 

Her  sum  of  miles,  —  delight  were  mornings  grey 
And  gorgeous  eves,  —  nor  was  it  less  delight, 
On  each  more  temperate  and  favouring  night, 
Friend  with  familiar  or  with  new-found  friend, 
To  pace  the  deck,  and  o'er  the  bulwarks  bend,  15 

And  the  night  watches  in  long  converse  spend ; 
While  still  new  subjects  and  new  thoughts  arise 
Amidst  the  silence  of  the  seas  and  skies. 

Amongst  the  mingled  multitude  a  few. 
Some  three  or  four,  towards  us  early  drew ;  20 

We  proved  each  other  with  a  day  or  two ; 
Night  after  night  some  three  or  four  we  walked. 
And  talked,  and  talked,  and   infinitely  talked. 

Of  the  New  England  ancient  blood  was  one ; 
His  youthful  spurs  in  letters  he  had  won,  25 

Unspoilt  by  that,  to  Europe  late  had  come,  — 
Hope  long  deferred,  —  and  went  unspoilt  by  Europe  home. 
What  racy  tales  of  Yankeeland  he  had ! 
Up-country  girl,   up-country  farmer  lad ; 

The  regnant  clergy  of  the  time  of  old  30 

In  wig  and  gown ;  —  tales  not  to  be  retold 


232  ARTHUR    HUGH    C LOUGH. 

By  me.     I  could  but  spoil  were  I  to  tell: 
Himself  must  do  it  who  can  do  it  well. 

An  English  clergyman  came  spick  and  sjDan 
In  black  and  white  —  a  large  well-favored  man,  35 

Fifty  years  old,  as  near  as  one  could  guess. 
He  looked  the  dignitary  more  or  less. 
A  rural  dean,   I  said,  he  was,  at  least. 
Canon  perhaps ;  at  many  a  good  man'3  feast 
A  guest  had  been,   among  the  choicest   there.  40 

Manly  his  voice  and  manly  was  his  air : 
At  the  first  sight  you  felt  he  had  not  known 
The  things  pertaining  to  his  cloth  alone. 
Chairman  of  Quarter  Sessions  had  he  been  ? 
Serious  and  calm,  'twas  plain  he  much  had  seen,  45 

Had  miscellaneous  large  experience  had 
Of  human  acts,  good,   half  and  half,  and  bad. 
Serious  and  calm,   yet  lurked,   I  know  not  why. 
At  times,  a  softness  in  his  voice  and  eye. 
Some  shade  of  ill  a  prosperous  life  had  crossed ;  50 

Married  no  doubt :  a  wife  or  child  had  lost  ? 
He  never  told  us  why  he  passed  the  sea. 

My  guardian  friend  was  now  at  thirty-three, 
A  rising  lawyer — ever,  at  the  best, 

Slow  rises  worth  in  lawyer's  gown  compressed ;  55 

Succeeding  now,  yet  just,  and  only  just. 
His  new  success  he  never  seemed  to  trust. 
By  nature  he  to  gentlest  thoughts  inclined, 
To  most  severe  had  disciplined  his  mind ; 

He  held  it  duty  to  be  half  unkind.  60 

Bitter,  they  said,  who  but  the  exterior  knew; 
In  friendship  never  was  a  friend  so  true : 
The  unwelcome  fact  he  did  not  shrink  to  tell, 
The  good,  if  fact,  he  recognized  as  well. 

Stout  to  maintain,  if  not  the  first  to  see ;  65 

In  conversation  who  so  great  as  he? 
Leading  but  seldom,  always  sure  to  guide ; 
To  false  or  silly,  if  'twas  borne  aside. 
His  quick  correction  silent  he  expressed, 
And  stopped  you  short,  and  forced  you  to  your  best.  70 


MARI  MAGNO,    OK    TALES    ON   BOARD.  233 

Often,   I  think,  he  suffered  from  some  pain 

Of  mind,  that  on  the  body  worked  again ; 

One  felt  it  in  his  sort  of  lialf-disdain, 

Impatient  not,  but  acrid  in  his  speecli ; 

The  world  with  him  her  lesson  failed  to  teach  7^ 

To  take  things  easily  and  let  them  go. 

He,  for  what  special  fitness  I  scarce  know, 
For  which  good  quality,  or  if  for  all, 
With  less  of  reservation  and  recall 

And  speedier  favor  than  I  e'er  had  seen,  80 

Took  as  we  called  him,   to  the  rural  dean. 
As  grew  the  gourd,  as  grew  the  stalk  of  bean. 
So  swift  it  seemed,  betwixt  these  differing  two 
A  stately  trunk  of  confidence  up-grew. 

Of  marriage  long  one  night  they  held  discourse  85 

Regarding  it  in  different  ways,  of  course. 
Marriage  is  discipline,  the  wise  had  said, 
A  needful  human  discipline  to  wed ; 
Novels  of  course  depict  it  final  bliss,  — 
Say,  had  it  ever  really  once  been  this?  90 

Our  Yankee  friend   (whom,  ere  the  night  was  done. 
We  called  New  England  or  the  Pilgrim  Son), 
A  little  tired,   made  bold  to  interfere  ; 
"Appeal,"  he  said,    "to  me;   my  sentence  hear. 
You'll  reason  on  till  night  and  reason  fail ;  95 

My  judgment  is  you  each  shall  tell  a  tale ; 
And  as  on  marriage  you  cannot  agree. 
Of  love  and  marriage  let  the  stories  be." 
Sentence  delivered,   as  the  younger  man, 
My  lawyer  friend  was  called  on  and  began.  100 


THE   LAWYER'S  FIRST  TALE. 

LOVE    IS    FELLOW-SERVICE. 

A  YOUTH  and  maid  upon  a  summer  night 
Upon  the  lawn,  while  yet  the  skies  were  light, 
Edmund  and  Emma,  let  their  names  be  these. 
Among  the  shrubs  within  the  circling  trees, 


234  ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH. 


Joined  in  a  game  with  boys  and  girls  at  play:  105 

For  games  perhaps  too  old  a  little  they ; 

In  April  she  her  eighteenth  year  begun, 

And  twenty  he,  and  near  to  twenty-one. 

A  game  it  was  of  nmning  and  of  noise ; 

He  as  a  boy,  with  other  girls  and  boys  no 

(Her  sisters  and  her  brothers),  took  the  fun; 

And  when  her  turn,  she  marked  not,  came  to  run, 

"Emma,"  he  called, — then  knew  that  he  was  wrong, 

Knew  that  her  name  to  him  did  not  belong. 

Her  look  and  manner  proved  his  feeling  true,  —  115 

A  child  no  more,  her  womanhood  she  knew ; 

Half  was  the  color  mounted  on  her  face, 

Her  tardy  movement  had  an  adult  grace. 

Vexed  with  himself,  and  shamed,  he  felt  the  more 

A  kind  of  joy  he  ne'er  had  felt  before.  1 20 

Something  there  was  that  from  this  date  began ; 

'Twas  beautiful  with  her  to  be  a  man. 

Two  years  elapsed,  and  he  who  went  and  came. 
Changing  in  much,  in  this  appeared  the  same ; 
The  feeling,  if  it  did  not  greatly  grow,  125 

Endured  and  was  not  wholly  hid  below. 
He  now,  overtasked  at  school,  a  serious  boy, 
A  sort  of  after-boyhood  to  enjoy 
Appeared  —  in  vigor  and  in  spirit  high 

And  manly  grown,  but  kept  the  boy's  soft  eye :  1 30 

And  full  of  blood,  and  strong  and  lithe  of  limb. 
To  him  Hwas  pleasure  now  to  ride,  to  swim ; 
The  peaks,   the  glens,  the  torrents  tempted  him. 
Restless  he  seemed,  —  long  distances  would  walk. 
And  lively  was,   and  vehement  in  talk.  135 

A  wandering  life  his  life  had  lately  been. 
Books  he  had  read,  the  world  had  little  seen. 
One  former  frailty  haunted  him,  a  touch 
Of  something  introspective  overmuch. 

With  all  his  eager  motions  still  there  went  140 

A  self-correcting  and  ascetic  bent, 
That  from  the  obvious  good  still  led  astray. 
And  set  him  travelling  on  the  longest  way; 


MAR  I   MAGNO,    OR    TALES    ON  BOARD.  235 

Seen  in  these  scattered  notes  their  date  that  claim 

When  first  his  feeling  conscious  sought  a  name.  145 

"  Beside  the  wishing  gate  which  so  they  name, 
'Mid  northern  hills  to  me  this  fancy  came, 
A  wish  I  formed,   my  wish  I  thus  expressed : 
Would  I  could  wish  my  wishes  all  to  rest. 
And  know  to  wish  the  wish  that  were  the  best!  150 

O  for  some  winnowing  wind,   to  the  emjjty  air 
This  chaff  of  easy  sympathies  to  bear 
Far  off,  and  leave  me  of  myself  aware ! 
While  thus  this  over  health  deludes  me  still. 
So  willing  that  I  know  not  what  I  will;  155 

O  for  some  friend,   or  more  than  friend,  austere, 
To  make  me  know  myself,  and  make  me  fear ! 
O  for  some  touch,  too  noble  to  be  kind, 
To  awake  to  life  the  mind  within  the  mind ! " 

"O  charms,  seductions  and  divine  delights!  160 

All  through  the  radiant  yellow  summer  nights, 
Dreams,  hardly  dreams,  that  yield  or  e'er  they're  done, 
To  the  bright  fact,   my  day,  my  risen  sun ! 
O  promise  and  fulfilment,  both  in  one ! 

O  bliss,  already  bliss,  which  naught  has  shared,  165 

Whose  glory  no  fruition  has  impaired. 
And,  emblem  of  my  state,  thou  coming  day. 
With  all  thy  hours  unspent  to  pass  away  ! 
Why  do  I  wait?     What  more  propose  to  know? 
Where  the  sweet  mandate  bids  me,  let  me  go;  170 

My  conscience  in  my  impulse  let  me  find. 
Justification  in  the  moving  mind. 
Law  in  the  strong  desire ;  or  yet  behind. 
Say,  is  there  aught  the  spell  that  has  not  heard, 
A  something  that  refuses  to  be  stirred?"  175 

"In  other  regions  has  my  being  heard 
Of  a  strange  language  the  diviner  word? 
Has  some  forgotten  life  the  exemplar  shown? 
Elsewhere  such  high  communion  have  I  known, 
As  dooms  me  here,  in  this,  to  live  alone?  180 

Then  love,  that  shouldest  blind  me,  let  me,  love. 
Nothing  behold  beyond  thee  or  above ; 


236  ARTHUR    HUGH    C LOUGH. 


Ye  iniiDuIses,  that  should  be  strong  and  wild. 
Beguile  me,  if  I  am  to  be  beguiled." 

"Or  are  there  modes  of  love;  and  different  kinds,  185 

Proportioned  to  the  sizes  of  our  minds? 
There  are  who  say  thus,  I  held  there  was  one, 
One  love,  one  deity,  one  central  sun ; 
As  he  resistless  brings  the  expanding  day. 
So  love  should  come  on  his  victorious  way.  190 

If  light  at  all,   can  light  indeed  be  there, 
Yet  only  penneate  half  the  ambient  air? 
Can  the  high  noon  be  regnant  in  the  sky. 
Yet  half  the  land  in  light,  and  half  in  darkness  lie? 
Can  love,  if  love,  be  occupant  in  part,  195 

Hold,  as  it  were,  some  chambers  in  the  heart ; 
Tenant  at  will  of  so  much  of  the  soul. 
Not  lord  and  mighty  master  of  the  whole? 
There  are  who  say,  and  say  that  it  is  well ; 
Opinion  all,   of  knowledge  none  can  tell."  200 

"Montaigne,   I  know  in  a  realm  high  above 
Places  the  seat  of  friendship  over  love ; 
'Tis  not  in  love  that  we  should  think  to  find 
The  lofty  fellowship  of  mind  with  mind ; 

Love's  not  a  joy  where  soul  and  soul  unite,  205 

Rather  a  wondrous  animal  delight ; 
And  as  in  spring,   for  one  consummate  hour 
Tlie  world  of  vegetation  turns  to  flower, 
The  Ijirds  with  liveliest  plumage  trim   their  wing. 
And  all  the  woodland  listens  as  they  sing;  210 

When  spring  is  o'er  and  summer  days  are  sped, 
The  songs  are  silent,  and  the  blossoms  dead : 
E'en  so  of  man  and  woman  is  the  bliss. 
O,  but  I  will  not  tamely  yield  to  this  ! 

I  think  it  only  shows  us  in  the  end,  215 

Montaigne  was  happy  in  a  noble  friend. 
Had  not  the  fortune  of  a  noble  wife ; 
He  lived,   I  think,  a  poor  ignoble  life. 
And  wrote  of  petty  pleasures,   petty  pain ; 
I  do  not  greatly  think  about  Montaigne."  220 

"How  charming  to  be  with  her!    Yet  indeed, 


MARI   MAGNO,    OR     TALES    ON   BOARD.  237 


After  a  while   I   find  a  blank  succeed : 

After  a  while  she  little  has  to  say, 

Tm  silent  too,   although  I  wish  to  stay; 

What  would  it  be  all  day,   day  after  day?  225 

Ah !    but  I   ask,   I  do  not  doubt,   too  much ; 

I  think  of  love  as  if  it  should  be  such 

As  to  fulfil  and  occupy  in  whole 

The  naught-else-seeking,   naught-essaying  soul. 

Therefore  it  is  my  mind  with  doubts  I   urge  ;  230 

Hence  are  these  fears  and  shiverings  on  the  verge  ; 

By  books,   not  nature,  thus  have  we  been  schooled, 

By  poetry  and  novels  been  befooled ; 

Wiser  tradition  says,   the  affections'  claim 

Will  be  supplied,   the  rest  will  be  the  same.  235 

I   think  too  much  of  love,   'tis  true  :    l"  know 

It  is  not  all,  was  ne'er  intended    so ; 

Yet  such  a  change,   so  entire,   I   feel,   'twould  be, 

So  potent,   so  omnipotent  with  me  ; 

My  former  self  I  never  should  recall,  —  240 

Indeed  I  think  it  must  be  all  in  all." 

"  I  thought  that  Love  was  winged;   without  a  sound. 
His  purple  pinions  bore  him  o'er  the  ground, 
Wafted  without  an  effort  here  or  there, 

He  came  —  and  we  too  trod  as  if  in  air :  —  245 

But  panting,   toiling,   clambering  up  the  hill. 
Am  I  to  assist  him?      I,   put  forth  my  will 
To  upbear  his  lagging  footsteps,  lame  and  slow, 
And  help  him  on  and  tell  him  where  to  go. 
And  ease  him  of  his  quiver  and  his  bow?  "  250 

"  Erction  !    I  saw  it  in  a  book; 
Why  did  I  notice  it,  why  did  I  look? 
Yea,  is  it  so,  ye  powers  that  see  above? 
I  do  not  love,   I  want,   I  try  to  love  ! 

This  is  not  love,  but  lack  of  love  instead!  255 

Pvlerciless  thought !    I  would  I  had  been  dead, 
Or  e'er  the  phrase  had  come  into  my  head." 

She  also  wrote :    and  here  may  find  a  place, 
Of  her  and  of  her  thoughts  some  slender  trace. 

"He  is  not  vain;    if  proud,   he  quells  his  pride,  260 


238  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

And  somehow  really  likes  to  be  defied ; 

Rejoices  if  you  humble  him  :    indeed 

Gives  way  at  once,  and  leaves  you  to  succeed." 

' '  Easy  it  were  with  such  a  mind  to  play, 
And  foolish  not  to  do  so,  some  would  say;  265 

One  almost  smiles  to  look  and  see  the  way : 
But  come  what  will,   I  will  not  play  a  part, 
Indeed,   I   dare  not  condescend  to  art.-' 

"Easy  'twere  not,  perhaps,  with  him  to  live; 
He  looks  for  more  than  anyone  can  give :  270 

So  dulled  at  times  and  disappointed ;    still 
Expecting  what  depends  not  of  my  will : 
My  inspiration  comes  not  at  my  call. 
Seek  me  as  I  am,  if  seek  you  do  at  all." 

"Like  him  I  do,  and  think  of  him  I  must;  275 

But  more  —  I  dare  not  and  I  cannot  trust. 
This  more  he  brings  —  say,  is  it  more  or  less 
Than  that  no  fruitage  ever  came  to  bless,  — 
The  old  wild  flower  of  love-in-idleness  ?  " 

"  Me  when  he  leaves  and  others  when  he  sees,  280 

What  is  my  fate  who  am  not  there  to  please? 
Me  he  has  left ;    already  may  have  seen 
One,   who  for  me  forgotten  here  has  been ; 
And  he,   the  while  is  balancing  between. 

If  the  heart  spoke,  the  heart  I  knew  were  bound;  285 

What  if  it  utter  an  uncertain  sound  ? " 

"  So  quick  to  vary,  so  rejoiced  to  change, 
From  this  to  that  his  feelings  surely  range ; 
His  fancies  wander,  and  his  thoughts  as  well ; 
And  if  the  heart  be  constant,  who  can  tell?  290 

Far  off  to  fly,  to  abandon  me,  and  go. 
He  seems  returning  then  before  I  know : 
With  every  accident  he  seems  to  move. 
Is  now  below  me  and  is  now  above. 
Now  far  aside,  —  O,  does  he  really  love?"  295 

"Absence  were  hard;  yet  let  the  trial  be; 
His  nature's  aim  and  purpose  he  would  free. 
And  in  the  world  his  course  of  action  see. 
O  should  he  lose,   not  learn ;   pervert  his  scope ; 


MART   MAGNO,    OK     TALES    ON   BOARD.  239 

0  should  I   lose  !  and  yet  to  win  I  hope.  300 

1  win  not  now ;   his  way  if  now  I  went, 
Brief  joy  I  gave,  for  years  of  discontent." 

"Gone,   is  it  true  ?  but  oft  he  went  before, 
And  came  again  before  a  month  was  o'er. 
Gone  —  though  I  could  not  venture  upon  art,  305 

It  was  perhaps  a  foolish  pride  in  part ; 
He  had  such  ready  fancies  in  his  head. 
And  really  was  so  easy  to  be  led  ; 
One  might  have  failed ;  and  yet  I  feel  'twas  pride. 
And  can't  but  half  repent  I  never  tried.  310 

Gone,  is  it  true  ?  but  he  again  will  come. 
Wandering  he  loves,   and  loves  returning  home." 

Gone,  it  was  true  ;  nor  came  so  soon  again, 
Came,  after  travelling,  pleasure  half,  half  pain. 
Came,  but  a  half  of  Europe  first  o'erran ;  315 

Arrived,   his  father  found  a  ruined  man. 
Rich  they  had  been,  and  rich  was  Emma  too. 
Heiress  of  wealtli  she  knew  not,   Edmund  knew. 

Farewell  to  her!  —  In  a  new  home  obscure. 
Food  for  his  helpless  parents    to  secure,  320 

From  early  morning  to  advancing  dark. 
He  toiled  and  labored  as  a  merchant's  clerk. 
Three  years  his  heavy  load  he  bore,    nor  quailed. 
Then  all  his  health,  though  scarce  his  spirit,  failed ; 
Friends  interposed,  insisted  it  must  be,  325 

Enforced  their  help,  and  sent  him  to  the  sea. 

Wandering  about  with  little  here  to  do. 
His  old  thoughts  mingling  dimly  with  his  new, 
Wandering  one  morn,   he  met  upon  the  shore. 
Her,   whom  he  quitted  five  long  years  before.  330 

Alas  !  why  quitted  ?     Say  that  charms  are  naught. 
Nor  grace,  nor  beauty  worth  one  serious  thought ; 
Was  there  no  mystic  virtue  in  the  sense 
That  joined  your  boyish  girlish  innocence? 

Is  constancy  a  thing  to  throw  away,  335 

And  loving  faithfulness  a  chance  of  every  day? 
Alas  !  why  quitted  ?  is  she  changed  ?  but  now 
The  weight  of  intellect  is  in  her  brow  ; 


240  ARTHUR  HUGH    C LOUGH. 


Changed,  or  but  truer  seen,  one  sees  in  her 

Something  to  wake  the  soul,   the  interior  sense  to  stir.       340 
Alone  they  met,  from  alien  eyes  away, 

Th^  high  shore  hid  them  in  a  tiny  bay. 

Alone  was  he,  was  she ;  in  sweet  surprise 

They  met,  before  they  knew  it,  in  their  eyes. 

In  his  a  wondering  admiration  glowed,  345 

In  hers,   a  world  of  tenderness  overflowed ; 

In  a  brief  moment  all  was  known  and  seen. 

That  of  slow  years  the  wearying  work  had  been: 

Morn's  early  odorous  breath  perchance  in  sooth, 

Awoke  the  old  natural  feeling  of  their  youth :  350 

The  sea,  perchance,  and  solitude  had  charms. 

They  met  —  I  know  not  —  in  each  other's  arms. 
Why  linger  now  —  why  waste  the  sands  of  life? 

A  few  sweet  weeks,   and  they  were  man  and  wife. 

To  his' old  frailty  do  not  be  severe,  oec 

His  latest  theory  with  patience  hear: 

"  I  sought  not,   truly  would  to  seek  disdain, 

A  kind,   soft  pillow  for  a  wearying  pain, 

Fatigues  and  cares  to  lighten,   to  relieve ; 

But  love  is  fellow-service,   I  believe."  360 

"  No,   tmly  no,   it  was  not  to  obtain. 

Though  that  alone  were  happiness,  were  gain, 

A  tender  breast  to  fall  upon  and  weep, 

A  heart,  the  secrets  of  my  heart  to  keep ; 

To  share  my  hopes,  and  in  my  griefs  to  grieve;  365 

Yet  love  is  fellow-service,   I  believe.'" 

"  Yet  in  the  eye  of  life's  all-seeing  sun 
We  shall  behold  a  something  we  have  done, 
Shall  of  the  work  together  we  have  wrought, 
Beyond  our  aspiration  and  our   thought,  370 

Some  not  unworthy  issue  yet  receive  ; 
For  love  is  fellow-service,  I  believe." 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 

Go,   for  they  call  you,   shepherd,   from  the  hill ; 
Go,   shepherd,   and  untie  the  wattled  cotes ! 

No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed. 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats. 

Nor  the  cropp'd  herbage  shoot  another  head ;  S 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest. 

And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 

Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd  green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  begin  the  quest!  lo 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late  — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse. 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves. 

Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to  use —         x  c 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 

The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 

With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn  — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day.  20 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,   half-reap'd  field. 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd  !  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 

Pale  pink  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep  ;  2  5 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 

(241) 


242  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Their  scent,  and  nistle  down  their  perfumed  sliowers 
Of  bloom  on  tlie  bent  grass  where  I   am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade ; 

And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers.  30 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book  — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again  ! 

The  story  of  the  Oxford  scholar  poor. 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door,  35 

One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  tlie  gipsy-lore, 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 

And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more.  40 

But  once,  years  after,   in  the  country-lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew. 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  enquired  ; 
Whereat  he  answer'd,  that  the  gipsy-crew. 

His  mates,   had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired  45 

The  workings  of  men's  brains. 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thouglits  they  will. 

"And  I,"  he  said,    "the  secret  of  their  art. 

When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world  impart ; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill."  50 

This  said,   he  left  theni,   and  return'd  no  more. — ■ 
But  nmiors  hung  about  the  country-side. 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 

In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  grey,  55 

The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring ; 

At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 

On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering,  60 

But,   'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,   he  would  fly. 
And   I   myself  seem   lialf  to  know  tliy  looks. 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY.  243 

And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer!  on  thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place ;  65 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer-heats, 

'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats.  70 

For  most,   I  know,   thou  lov'st  retired  ground ; 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer-nights,   have   met. 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 

Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet,  75 

As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round ; 
And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream. 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Pluck"d  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream.  80 

And  then  they  land,   and  thou  art  seen  no  more  !  — 
Maidens,   who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  througli  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way.  -85 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemone. 

Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer  eves. 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves  — 
But  none  hath  words  she   can  report  of  thee.  90 

And,   above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,   and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames. 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where  black-wing'd  swallows  haunt  the  glittering  Thames. 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass,  95 

Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown ; 

Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,   thy  figure  spare. 


244  MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air — • 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wast  gone  !  loo 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills. 
Where  at  he'^  open  door  the  housewife  darns. 

Thou  hast  been  seen,   or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late  105 

For  cresses  from  the  rills. 
Have  known  thee  eying,   all  an  April-day, 

The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine  ; 

And  marked  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and  shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away.  no 

In  autumn,   on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood  — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,   and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagged  and  shreds  of  grey. 

Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thessaly —  115 

The  blackbird,  picking  food. 
Sees  thee,   nor  stops  his  meal,   nor  fears  at  all ; 

So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray. 

Rapt,   twirling  in  thy  hand  a  witherVl  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to  fall.  1 20 

And  once,   in  winter,   on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go, 

Have  I   not  passed  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge. 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 

Thy  face  towVd  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge?  125 

And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill. 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range  ; 

TurnYl  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes  falL 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church   hall  — 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd  grange.  130 

But  what  —  I  dream !     Two  hundred  years  ai-e  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 
And  the  jrrave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY.  245 

That  thou  wert  wandered  from  the  studious  walls 

To  learn  strange  arts,   and  join  a  gipsy-tribe;  135 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 

Long  since,   and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid  — - 
Some  country-nook,   where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave, 

Under  a  dark,  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade.  140 

—  No,   no,   thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours  ! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls ; 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,   again,   again. 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls  145 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit. 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are  —  what  we  have  been.  1 50 

Thou  hast  not  lived,   why  should'st  thou  perish,   so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  ofie  desire ; 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,   like  other  men,   thy  lire  ! 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled,  155 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot. 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page. 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,   alas!  have  not.  160 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,   with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without. 

Firm  to  their  mark,   not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,   the  languid  doubt. 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  bafiied,  165 

brings. 
O  life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope. 

Of  whom  each  strives,   nor  knows  for  what  he  strives, 


246  MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 


And  eacli  half   lives  a  hundred  diiTcrent  lives  ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope.  17° 

Thou  waitest  for  the  sjjark  from  heaven  !  and  we. 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds. 

Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfiird ;  175 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away. 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day  — 
Ah!  do  not  we,  wanderer!  await  it  too?  180 

Yes,  we  await  it!  —  but  it  still  delays. 

And  then  we  suffer  !  and  amongst  us  one, 

Who  most  has  suffered,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne ; 

And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he  185 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 

And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed. 

And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  the  head. 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes.  19° 

This  for  our  wisest  !  and  we  others  pine. 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear; 
With  close-lipp'd  patience  for  our  only  friend. 

Sad  patience,   too  near  neighbor  to  despair —  195 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine  ! 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through   tlic  woods  dost  stray. 

Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy, 

Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away.  200 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear. 
And.  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY.  247 

With  its  sick  hurry,   its  divided  iiims, 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,   its  palsied  hearts,   was  rife —  205 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 

Still  fly,   plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  ! 
Averse,   as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn. 

Wave  us  away,   and  keep  thy  solitude  !  210 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope. 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,   onward  impulse  brushing  through. 
By  night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the  glade  — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,   where  none  pursue,  215 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,   and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 

Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 

With  dew,   or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,   to  the  nightingales  !  220 

But  fly  our  paths,   our  feverish   contact  fly ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife. 

Which,   though  it  gives  no  bliss,   yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life. 

Like  us  distracted,   and  like  us  unblest.  225 

Soon,   soon  thy  cheer  would  die. 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,   and  unfix'd  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made  ; 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,   and  grow  old  at  last,   and  die  like  ours.  230 

Then  fly  our  greetings,   fly  our  speech  and  smiles  ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,   from  the  sea. 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow  235 

Among  the  yEgaean  isles ; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come. 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,   and  Chian  wine. 

Green,   bursting  figs,   and  tunnies  steepVl  in  brine  — 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home,  240 


248  MATTHEW    ARNOLD. 

Tlie  young  light-hearted  masters  of  tlie  waves  — 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,   and  sliook  out  more  sail ; 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 

Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily,  245 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits ;   and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of  foam. 

Shy  traffickers,   the  dark  Iberians  come ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid    his  corded  bales.  250 


THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN. 

Come,   dear  children,  let  us  away ; 

Down  and  away  below  ! 

Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay. 

Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow. 

Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow ;  5 

Now  the  wild  white   liorses  play. 

Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 

Children  dear,  let  us  away ! 

This  way,   this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go  —  10 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 

' '  Margaret !  Margaret !  " 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once   more)   to  a  mother's  ear;  13 

Children's  voices,   wild  with  pain  — 

Surely  she  will  come  again ! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away ; 

This  way,   this  way ! 

' '  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  !  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret  !  Margaret ! 


THE    FORSAKEN  MERMAN.  249 


Come,   dear  children,   come  away  down ; 

Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  wliite-waird  town,  25 

And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore  ; 

Then  come  down ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day ; 

Come  away,   come  away  ! 

Children  dear,   was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay. 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 

The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 

Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep,  35 

Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 

Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam. 

Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream. 

Where  the  sea-beasts,   ranged  all  round. 

Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground ;  40 

Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 

Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine ; 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 

Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye. 

Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye?  45 

When  did  music  come  this  way? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)   that  she   went  away? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  50 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea. 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 

She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,   and  she  tended  it  well. 

When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 

She  sigh'd,   she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea;      55 

She  said:    "  I   must  go,   for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah  me  ! 

And  I  Jose  my  poor  soul.   Merman  !  here  with  thee." 


250  MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

I  said:    "Go  up,   dear  heart,   through  the  waves;  60 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves !  " 
She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
Children  dear,   was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,   were  we  long  alone? 
"The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan;  65 

Long  prayers,"  I  said,    "  in  the  world  they  say; 
Come ! "  I  said ;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-wall'd  town ; 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where  all  was  still,  70 

To  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their  prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones-  worn  with  rains. 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded  panes.     75 
She  sate  by  the  pillar ;   we  saw  her  clear : 
"Margaret,  hist!  come  quick,   we  are  here! 
Dear  heart,''  I  said,    "we  are  long  alone; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,   the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,  80 

For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book  ! 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;   shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more  ! 
Come  away,   come  down,   call  no  more ! 

Down,   down,  down  !  85 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  ! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings:    "O  joy,   O  joy. 

For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy!  90 

For  the  priest,   and  the  bell,   and  the  holy  well ; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun. 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun ! " 
And  so  she  sings  her  till, 

Singing  most  joyfully,  95 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 


THE    FORSAKEN   MERMAN.  251 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ;  i  oo 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear. 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,   long  sigh;  105 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away  children ; 
Come  children,   come  down ! 

The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly ;  1 1  o 

Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 

Will  hear  the  waves  roar.  1 1 5 

We  shall  see,   while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 

Singing:    "Here  came  a  mortal,  120 

But  faithless  was  she  ! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,   children,   at  midnight. 

When  soft  the  winds  blow,  125 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight. 

When  spring-tides  are  low ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly  130 

On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom  ; 

Up  the  still,   glistening  beaches. 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie. 


252  MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry.  135 

We  will  gaze,   from  the  sand-hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing:    "There  dwells  a  loved  one,  140 

But  cruel  is  she ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 


BROWNING. 


A   TRANSCRIPT    FROM   EURIPIDES^ 

There  slept  a  silent  palace  in  the  sun, 
With  plains  adjacent  and  Thessalian  peace  — 
Pherai,  where  King  Admetos  ruled  the  land. 

"What  now  mav  mean  the  silence  at  the  door? 

Why  is  Admetos'  mansion  stricken  dumb?  5 

Not  one  friend  near,   to  say  if  we  should  mourn 

Our  mistress  dead,   or  if  Alkestis  lives 

And  sees  the  light  still,   Pelias'  child  —  to  me 

To  all,   conspicuously  the  best  of  wives 

That  ever  was  toward  husband  in  this  world  !  lo 

Hears  anyone  or  wail  beneath  the  roof, 

Or  hands  that  strike  each  other,   or  the  groan 

Announcing  all  is  done  and  naught  to  dread? 

Still  not  a  servant  stationed  at  the  gates  ! 

O  Paian,  that  thou  would'st  dispart  the  wave  i  5 

O'  the  woe,  be  present !     Yet,   had  woe  o'erwhelmed 

The  housemates,   they  were  hardly  silent  thus  : 

It  cannot  be,   the  dead  is  forth  and  gone. 

Whence  comes  thy  gleam  of  hope  ?     I   dare  not  hope  : 

What  is  the  circumstance  that  heartens  thee?  20 

How  could  Admetos  have  dismissed  a  wife 

So  worthy,  unescorted  to  the  grave? 

Before  the  gates  I  see  no  hallowed  vase 

Of  fountain  water,   such  as  suits  death's  door ; 

Nor  any  dipt  locks  strew  the  vestibule,  25 

Though  surely  these  drop  when  we  grieve  the  dead. 

Nor  hand  sounds  smitten  against  youthful  hand, 

(253^ 


254  BROWNING. 


The  women's  way.     And  yet  —  the  appointed  time 

How  speak  the  word?  —  this  day  is  even  the  day 

Ordained  her  for  departing  from  its  Hght.  30 

O  touch  calamitous  to  lieart  and  soul  ! 

Needs  must  one,  when  the  good  are  tortured  so, 

Sorrow,  —  one  reckoned  fiiithful   from  the  first.'' 

So  wailed  they,   while  a  sad  procession  wound 

Slow  from  the  innermost  o'  the  palace,  stopped  35 

At  the  extreme  verge  of  the  platform-front : 

There  opened,   and  disclosed  Alkestis'  self. 

The  consecrated  lady,  borne  to  look 

Her  last  —  and  let  the  living  look  their  last  — 

She  at  the  sun,  we  at  Alkestis.      ...  40 

"Sun,   and  thou  light  of  day,   and  heavenly   dance 

O'  the  fleet  cloud-figure  ! "   (so  her  passion  paused. 

While  the  awe-stricken  husband  made  his  moan. 

Muttered  now  this,   now  that  ineptitude : 

"  Sun  that  sees  thee  and  me,  a  suffering  pair,  45 

Who  did  the  Gods  no  wrong  whence  thou  should'st  die !  ") 

Then,  as  if  caught  up,   carried  in  their  course, 

Fleeting  and  free  as  cloud  and  sunbeam  are, 

She  missed  no  happiness  that  lay  beneath  : 

"O  thou  wide  earth,  from  these  my  palace  roofs,  50 

To  distant  nuptial  chambers  once  my  own 

In  that  lolkos  of  my  ancestry  !  "  — 

There  the  flight  failed  her.      "Raise  thee,   wretched  one! 

Give  us  not  up  !     Pray  pity  from  the  Gods  !  " 

Vainly  Admetos  :   for  "1  see  it  —  see  55 

The  two-oared  boat  !     The  ferryer  of  the  dead, 
Charon,   hand  hard  upon  tlie  boatman's-pole. 
Calls  me  —  even  now  calls — 'Why  delayest  thou? 
Quick  !     Thou  obstructest  all  made  ready  here 
For  prompt  departure:   quick,   then!'" 

' '  Woe  is  me  !  60 

A  bitter  voyage  this  to  undergo, 
Even  i'  the  telling !     Adverse   Powers  above, 
How  do  ye  plague  us  I  " 


A     TRANSCRIPT    FROM    EURIPIDES.  255 

Then  a  shiver  ran  : 
"He  has  me  —  seest  not?  —  hales  me, — who  is  it?  — 
To  the  hall  o'  the  Dead  —  ah,   who  but  Hades'  self,  65 

He,   with  the  wings  there,   glares  at  me,   one  gaze, 
All  that  blue  brilliance,  under  the  eyebrow  ! 
What  wilt  thou  do  ?     Unhand  me  !     Such  a  way 
I   have  to  traverse,   all  unhappy  one  !  " 

"  Way  —  piteous  to  mv  friends,   but,   most  of  all,  70 

Me  and  thy  children :   ours  assuredly 

A  common  partnership  in  grief  like  this  !  " 

Whereat  they  closed  about  her ;  but  ' '  Let  be  ! 

Leave,  let  me  lie  now  !     Strength  forsakes  my  feet. 

Hades  is  here,   and  shadowy  on  my  eyes  75 

Comes  the  night  creeping.      Children  —  children,  now 

Indeed,   a  mother  is  no  more  for  you  ! 

Farewell,   O  children,   long  enjoy  the  light !  " 

"  Ah  me,  the  melancholy  word  I  hear. 

Oppressive  beyond  every  kind  of  death !  80 

No,  by  the  Deities,   take  heart  nor  dare 

To  give  me  up  —  no,  by  our  cliildren  too 

Made  orphans  of!     But  rise,  be  resolute. 

Since,  thou  departed,  I  no  more  remain ! 

For  in  thee    are  we  bound  up,  to  exist  85 

Or  cease  to  be  —  so  we  adore  thy  love  ! " 

—  Which  brought  out  truth  to  judgment.      At  this  word 

And  protestation,   all  the  truth  in  her 

Claimed  to  assert  itself:    she  waved  away 

The  blue-eyed,   black-wing'd  phantom,   held  in  check  90 

The  advancing  pageantry  of  Hades  there. 

And,   with  no  change  in  her  own  countenance. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  protesting  man. 

And  let  her  lips  unlock  their  sentence, — so! 

"  Admetos, — how  things  go  with  me  thou  seest, —  95 

I  wish  to  tell  thee,   ere  I  die,   what  things 

I  wish  should  follow.      I  —  to  honor  thee. 


25  H  BROWNING. 


Secure  for  thee,  by  my  own  souFs  exchange, 

Continued  looking  on  the  dayUght  here  — 

Die  for  thee  —  yet,   if  so  I  pleased,  might  live,  loo 

Nay,  wed  what  man  of  Thessaly  I  would. 

And  dwell  i'  the  dome  with  pomp  and  queenliness. 

I  would  not,  . —  would  not  live  bereft  of  thee. 

With  children  orphaned,   neither  shrank  at  all. 

Though  having  gifts  of  youth  wherein  I  joyed.  105 

Yet,  who  begot  thee  and  who  gave  thee  birth. 

Both  of  these  gave  thee  up ;   no  less,  a  term 

Of  life  was  reached  when  death  became  them  well. 

Ay,  well  —  to  save  their  child  and  glorious  die : 

Since  thou  wast  all  they  had,   nor  hope  remained  iio 

Of  having  other  children  in  thy  place. 

So,   I  and  thou  had  lived  out  our  full  time. 

Nor  thou,   left  lonely  of  thy  wife,   wouldst  groan 

With  children  reared  in  orphanage :    but  thus 

Some  God  disposed  things,   willed  they  so  should  be.       115 

Be  they  so  !     Now  do  thou  remember  this. 

Do  me  in  turn  a  favor  —  favor,   since 

Certainly  I  shall  never  claim  my  due. 

For  nothing  is  more  precious  than  a  life  : 

But  a  fit  favor,  as  thyself  wilt  say,  120 

Loving  our  children  here  no  less  than  I, 

If  head  and  heart  be  sound  in  thee  at  least. 

Uphold  them,   make  them  masters  of  my  house. 

Nor  wed  and  give  a  step-dame  to  the  pair, 

Who,   being  a  worse  wife  than  I,  through  spite  125 

Will  raise  her  hand  against  both  thine  and  mine. 

Never  do  this  at  least,   I  pray  to  thee  ! 

For  hostile  the  new-comer,  the  step-dame, 

To  the  old  brood  —  a  very  viper  she 

l-'or  gentleness!     Here  stand  they,  boy  and  girl;  130 

The  boy  has  got  a  father,  a  defence 

Tower-like,  he  speaks  to  and  has  answer  from : 

But  thou,   my  girl,  how  will  thy  virginhood 

Conclude  itself  in  marriage  fittingly? 

Upon  what  sort  of  sire-found  yoke-fellow  135 

Art  thou  to  chance?     With   all   to  apprehend  — 


A     TRANSCRIPT   FROM    EURIPIDES.  257 

Lest,   casting  on  thee  some  unkind  report, 

She  blast  thy  nuptials  in  the  bloom  of  youth. 

For  neither  shall  tliy  mother  watch  thee  wed, 

Nor  hearten  thee  in  child-birth,   standing  by  140 

Just  when  a  mother's  presence  helps  the  most. 

No,   for  I  have  to  die  :    and  this  my  ill 

Comes  to  me,   nor  to-morrow,   no,   nor  yet 

The  third  day  of  the  month,   but  now,   even  now, 

1   shall  be  reckoned  among  those  no  more.  145 

Farewell,  be  happy !    And  to  thee,  indeed. 

Husband,   the  boast  remains  permissible 

Thou  hadst  a  wife  was  worthy  !     And  to    you. 

Children;   as  good  a  mother  gave  you  birth." 

\Admetos  proinises  to  care  tenderly  for  the  children  and  never  to  wed  again. 
Alkestis  then  continues  :  ] 

"  O  children,  now  yourselves  have  heard  these  things  —      150 
Your  father  saying  he  will  never  wed 
Another  woman  to  be  over   you. 
Nor  yet  dishonor  me  !  " 

' '  And  now  at  least 
I  say  it,   and  I  will  accomplish,  too ! " 

"Then,   for  such  promise  of  accomplishment,  155 

Take  from  my  hand  these  children  ! " 

' '  Thus  I  take  — 
Dear  gift  from  the    dear  hand  ! " 

"  Do  thou  become 
Mother,   now,   to  these  children  in  my  place !  " 

' '  Great  the  necessity  I  should  be  so, 

At  least,  to  these  bereaved  of  thee!"  160 

•'Child  — child! 
Just  when  I   needed  most  to  live,   below 
Am  I  departing  from  you  both  !  " 

' '  Ah  me  ! 
And  wliat  shall   I   do,   then,   left  lonely  thus  ?  " 


258  BROWNING. 


"Time  will  appease  thee:   who  is  dead  is   naught." 

"Take  me  with  thee  —  take,   by  the  Gods  below!"  165 

"We  are  sufficient,    we  who  die  for  thee." 

"Oh,   Powers,   ye  widow  me  of  what  a  wife!" 

"And  truly  the  dimmed  eye  draws  earthward  now!" 

"Wife,   if  thou  leav'st  me,   I   am  lost  indeed!" 

"She  once  was  —  now  is  nothing,   thou  mayst  say."        170 

"Raise  thy  face,   nor  forsake  thy  children  thus!" 

"Ah,   willingly  indeed  I  leave  them  not! 
But  —  fare  ye  well,   my  children!" 

"  Look  on  them  — 
Look ! " 

"I  am  nothingness." 

"What  dost  thou?      Leav'st      .      .      ." 
"  Farewell ! " 

And  in  the  breath  she  passed  away.  175 

"Undone  —  me  miserable!"  moaned  the  king, 
While  friends  released  the  long-suspended  sigh. 
"Gone  is  she:    no  wife  for  Admetos  more!" 

[  The  chorus  then  laments  the  death  of  Alkestis,  when^ 

A  great  voice  — 
"  My  hosts  here  !  " 

Oh,   the  thrill  that  ran  through  us  ! 
Never  was  aught  so  good  and  opportune  !  1 80 

As  that  great  interrupting  voice.     For  see  ! 
Here  maundered  this  dispirited  old  age 
Before  the  palace :  whence  a  something  crept 
Which  told  us  well  enough   without   a  word 
What  was  a-doing  inside, — every  touch  185 

O'  the  garland  on  those  temples,  tenderest 
Disposure  of  each  arm  along  its  side. 
Came  putting  out  what  warmth  i'  the  world  was  left. 
Then,   as  it   happens  at  a    sacrifice 


A     TRANSCRIPT    FROM   EURIPIDES.  259 


When,   drop  by  drop,   some  lustral  bath  is  brimmed:       190 

Into  the  thin  and  clear  and  cold,   at  once 

They  slaughter  a  whole  wine-skin ;    Bacchos'  blood 

Sets  the  white  water  all  aflame  :   even  so, 

Sudden  into  the  midst  of  sorrow,  leapt 

Along  with  the  gay  cheer  of  that  great  voice,  195 

Hope,  joy,   salvation  :    Herakles  was  here  ! 

Himself,   o'  the  threshold,   sent  his  voice  on  first 

To  herald  all  that  human  and  divine 

r  the  weary  happy  face  of  him,  —  half  God, 

Half  man,   which  made  the  god-part  God  the   more.         200 

"  Hosts  mine,"  he   broke  upon  the  sorrow  with, 
"Inhabitants  of  this  Pheraian  soil. 
Chance  I  upon  Admetos  inside  here?" 

The  irresistible  sound  wholesome  heart 

O'  the  hero,  —  more  than  all  the  mightiness  205 

At  labor  in  the  limbs  that,   for  man's    sake. 

Labored  and  meant  to  labor  their  life-long,  — 

This  drove  back,   dried  up  sorrow  at  its   source. 

How  could  it  brave  the  happy  weary  laugh 

Of  who  had  bantered  sorrow   "Sorrow  here?  210 

What  have  you  done  to  keep  your  friend  from  harm? 

Could  no  one  give  the  life  I   see  he  keeps? 

Or,   say  there's  sorrow  here  past  friendly  help. 

Why  waste  a  word  or  let  a  tear  escape 

While  other  sorrows  wait  you  in  the  world,  215 

And  want  the  life  of  you,   though  helpless  here  ?  " 

Clearly  there  was  no  telling  such  an  one 

How,   when  their  monarch  tried  who  loved  him  more 

Than  he  loved  them,   and  found  they  loved,   as  he, 

Each  man,   himself,   and  held,   no  otherwise,  220 

That,   of  all  evils  in  the  world,   the  worst 

Was  —  being  forced  to  die,   whate'er  death  gain: 

How  all  this  selfishness  in  him  and  them 

Caused  certain  sorrow  which  they  sang  about,  ■ — 

I   think  that  Herakles,   who  held  his  life  225 

Out  on  his  hand,   for  any  man  to  take  — 

I   think  his  laugh  had  marred  their  threnody. 


260  BROWNING. 


"He  is  in  tlie  house/'  they  answered.      After  all, 

They  might  have  told  the  story,   talked  their  best 

About  the  inevitable  sorrow  here,  230 

Nor  changed  nor  checked  the  kindly  nature,  —  no  ! 

So  long  as  men  were  merely  weak,   not  bad, 

He  loved  men :   were  they  Gods  he  used  to  help  ? 

"Yea,  Pheres'  son  is  in-doors,   Herakles." 

.     .  "  Look  where  comes  the  lord  o'  the  land,   himself,    235 
Admetos,  from  the  palace  ! "  they  outbroke 
In  some  surprise,  as  well  as  much  relief. 
What  had  induced  the  king  to  waive   his  right 
And  luxury  of  woe  in  loneliness  ? 

Out  he  came  quietly ;   the  hair  was  dipt,  240 

And  the  garb  sable ;   else  no  outward  sign 

Of  sorrow  as  he  came  and  faced  his  friend. 

Was  truth  fast  terrifying  tears  away  ? 

' '  Hail,  child  of  Zeus,  and  sprung  from  Perseus  too ! " 

The  salutation  ran  without  a  fault.  245 

"And  thou,   Admetos,   King  of  Thessaly  !  " 

"Would,   as  thou  wishest  me,   the  grace  might  fall! 
But  my  good-wisher,   that  thou  art,    I  know."  . 

"Alas,   Admetos  —  would  we  found  thee  gay, 
Not  grieving ! " 

"What  as  if  about  to  do  250 

Subjoinest  thou  that  comment  ?  " 

"  I  shall  seek 
Another  hearth,   proceed  to  other  hosts."' 

"Never,   O  king,  shall  that  be!     No  such  ill 
Betide  me." 

'  Nay,   to  mourners  should   there  come 
A  guest,   he  proves  importunate!"  255 

••  The   dead  — 
Dead  are  they:   but  go  tliou  within  my  house!" 


A     TRANSCRIPT    FROM   EURIPIDES.  261 

"  ^Tis  base  carousing  beside  friends  wlio  mourn."' 

"  The  guest-rooms,   whither  we  shall  lead  thee,   lie 
Apart  from  ours." 

' '  Nay,  let  me  go  my  way  ! 
Ten-thousandfold  the  favor  I   shall  thank ! "  260 

"It  may  not  be  thou  goest  to  the  hearth 

Of  any  man  but  me  !  "  so  made  an  end 

Admetos,   softly  and  decisively, 

Of  the  altercation.     Herakles  forbore  : 

And  the  king  bade  a  servant  lead  the  way,  265 

Open  the  guest-rooms  ranged  remote  from  view 

O'  the  main  hall,  tell  the  functionaries,   too. 

They  had  to  furnish  forth  a  plenteous  feast : 

And  then  shut  close  the  doors  o'  the   hall,   midway, 

"  Because  it  is  not  proper  friends  who  feast  270 

Should  hear  a  groaning  or  be  grieved,"  quoth  he. 

Whereat  the  hero,  who  was  truth  itself. 

Let  out  the  smile  again,   repressed  awhile 

Like  fountain-brilliance  one  forbids  to  play. 

He  did  too  many  grandnesses,  to  note  275 

Much  in  the  meaner  things  about  his  path  : 

And  stepping  there,   with  face  towards  the  sun, 

Stopped  seldom  to  pluck  weeds  or  ask  their  names. 

Therefore  he  took  Admetos  at  the  word : 

This  trouble  must  not  hinder  any  more  280 

A  ti"ue  heart  from  good  will  and  pleasant  ways. 

And  so,  the  great  arm,  which  had  slain  the  snake, 

Strained  his  friend's  head  a  moment  in  embrace 

On  that  broad  breast  beneath  the  lion's  hide. 

Till  the  king's  cheek  winced  at  the  thick  rough  gold  ;      285 

And  then  strode  oflf,  with  who  had  care  of  him. 

To  the  remote  guest-chamber :   glad  to  give 

Poor  flesh  and  blood  their  respite  and  relief 

In  the  interval  'twixt  fight  and  fight  again  — 

All  for  the  world's  sake.     Our  eyes  followed  him,  290 


262  BROWNING. 

Be  sure,  till  those  mid-doors  shut  us  outside. 
The  king,  too,  watched  great  Herakles  go  oft 
All  faith,  love,  and  obedience  to  a  friend. 

\_When  Herakles  goes  off  to  refresh  himself,  Admetos  mamtains  to  the  chorus 
that  to  have  forced  away  a  guest,  even  under  the  present  sad  circumstances, 
■would  have  been  an  unpardonable  breach  of  hospitality.  Enter  Pheres, 
the  father  of  Admetos  ;  they  fall  into  a  furious  quarrel,  the  son  reproaching  the 
father  for  his  selfishness  in  refusing  to  save  his  offspring  by  dying ;  the  father 
declaring     .     .     •     ] 

Never  did  I  receive  it  as  a  law 

Hereditary,   no,   nor  Greek  at  all,  295 

That  sires  in  place  of  sons  were  bound  to  die. 

[  When  the  wrangle  dies  out,  the  funeral  procession  of  Alkestis  moves  off  to  the 
tomb.  Soon  after  this,  Herakles  learns  from  an  ancient  servant  the  real  cause 
of  Admetos'  grief  thus  far  carefully  concealed  by  him  from  his  guest.  There- 
upon Herakles  breaks  out    .     .     .     ] 

"But  I  divined  it!  seeing  as  I  did, 

His  eye  that  ran  with  tears,   his  close-clipt  hair. 

His  countenance  !     Though    he  persuaded  me. 

Saying  it  was  a  strangers  funeral  300 

He  went  with  to  the  grave :  against  my  wish. 

He  forced  on  me  that  I  should  enter  doors, 

Drink  in  the  hall  o'  the  hospitable  man 

Circumstanced  so !     And  do  I  revel  yet 

With  wreath  on  head?      But  —  thou  to  hold  thy  peace,  305 

Nor  tell  me  what  a  woe  oppressed  my  friend  ! 

Where  is  he  gone  to  bury  her?     Where  am  I 

To  go  and  find  her?  " 

"  By  the  road  that   leads 
Straight  to   Larissa,   thou  wilt  see   the  tomb, 
Out  of  the  suburb,   a  carved    sepulchre."'  310 

So  said  he,   and  therewith  dismissed  himself 

Inside  to  his  lamenting:   somewhat  soothed. 

However,   that  he   had  adroitly  spoilt 

The  mirth  of  the  great  creature  :   oil,   he  marked 

The  movement  of  the   mouth,   how  lip  pressed  lip,  315 


A     TRANSCRIPT    FROM    EURIPIDES.  263 

And  either  eye  forgot  to  shine,  as,  fast. 

He  plucked  the  chaplet  from  his  forehead,   dashed 

The  myrtle-sprays  down,   trod  them  underfoot ! 

And  all  the  joy  and  wonder  of  the  wine 

Withered  away,   like  fire  fi'om  off  a  brand  320 

The  wind  blows  over  —  beacon  though  it  be, 

Whose  merry  ardor  only  meant  to  make 

Somebody  all  the  better  for  its  blaze, 

And  save  lost  people  in  the  dark :   quenched  now  ! 

Not  long  quenched!     As  the  flame,  just  hurried  oft"         325 

The  brand's  edge,   suddenly  renews  its  bite, 

Tasting  some  richness  caked  i'  the  core  o'  the  tree,  — 

Pine,   with  a  blood  that's  oil,  —  and  triumphs  up 

Pillar-wise  to  the  sky  and  saves  the  world : 

So,  in  a  spasm  and  splendor  of  resolve,  330 

All  at  once  did  the  God  surmount  the  man. 

"  O  much-enduring  heart  and  hand  of  mine  ! 

Now  show  what  sort  of  son  she  bore  to  Zeus, 

That  daughter  of  Elektruon,   Timns'  child, 

Alkmen^  !  for  that  son  must  needs  save  now  335 

The  just-dead  lady:   ay,   established  here 

r  the  house  again  Alkestis,   bring  about 

Comfort  and  succor  to  Admetos  so  ! 

I  will  go  lie  in  wait  for  Death,   black-stoled 

King  of  the  corpses  !     I  shall  find  him,   sure,  340 

Drinking,   beside  the  tomb,   o'  the  sacrifice : 

And  if  I  lie  in  ambuscade,   and  leap 

Out  of  my  lair,   and  seize  —  encircle  him 

Till  one  hand  join  the  other  round  about  — 

There  lives  not  who  shall  pull  him  out  from  me,  345 

Rib-mauled,  before  he  let  the  woman  go  ! 

But  even  say  I  miss  the  booty,  —  say. 

Death  comes  not  to  the  boltered  blood,  —  why  then, 

Down  go  I,   to  the  unsunned  dwelling-place 

Of  Kor6  and  the  king  there, — make  demand,  350 

Confident  I  shall  bring  Alkestis  back. 

So  as  to  put  her  in  the  hands  of  him 


264  BROWNING. 


My  host,   that  housed  me,   never  drove  me  off: 

Though    stricken  with  sore  sorrow,   hid  the  stroke. 

Being  a  noble   heart  and  honoring  me  !  355 

Who  of  Thessalians,   more  than  this  man,  loves 

The  stranger?     Who,   that  now  inhabits  Greece? 

Wherefore  he  shall  not  say  the  man  was  vile 

Whom  he  befriended,  —  native  noble  heart ! " 

So,   one  look  upward,   as  if  Zeus  might  laugh  360 

Approval  of  his  human  progeny,  — 

One  summons  of  the  whole  magnific  frame, 

Each  sinew  to  its  service,  —  up  he  caught. 

And  over  shoulder  cast,  the  lion-shag, 

Let  the  club  go, — for  had  he  not  those  hands?  365 

And  so  went  striding  off,   on  that  straight  way 

Leads  to  Larissa  and  the  suburb  tomb. 

Gladness  be  with  thee.   Helper  of  our  world ! 

I  think  this  is  the  authentic  sign  and  seal 

Of  Godship,   that  it  ever  waxes  glad,  370 

And  more  glad,  until  gladness  blossoms,  bursts 

Into  a  rage  to  suffer  for  mankind. 

And  recommence  at  sorrow :   drops  like  seed 

After  the  blossom,  ultimate  of  all. 

Say,   does  the  seed  scorn  earth  and  seek  the  sun?  375 

Surely  it  has  no  other  end  and  aim 

Than  to  drop,   once  more  die  into  the  ground. 

Taste  cold  and  darkness  and  oblivion   there  : 

And  thence  rise,   tree-like  grow  through  pain  to  joy, 

More  joy  and  most  joy,  —  do  man  good  again.  380 

So,  to  the  stmggle  off  strode  Herakles. 

When  silence  closed  behind  the  lion-garb. 

Back  came  our  dull  fact  settling  in  its  place. 

Though  heartiness  and  passion  half-dispersed 

The  inevitable  fate.     And  presently  385 

In  came  the  mourners  from  the  funeral. 

One  after  one,  until  we  hoped  the  last 

Would  be  Alkestis  and  so  end  our  dream. 

Could  they  have  really  left  Alkestis  lone 

r  the  wayside  sepulchre?     Home,  all  save  she?  390 


A     TRANSCRIPT   FROM    EURIPIDES.  265 

And  when  Admetos  felt  that  it  was  so, 

By  the  stand-still :   when  he  lifted  head  and  face 

From  the  two  hiding  hands  and  peplos'  fold, 

And  looked  forth,   knew  the  palace,   knew  the  hills. 

Knew  the  plains,   knew  the  friendly  frequence  there,         395 

And  no  Alkestis  any  more  again. 

Why,   the  whole  woe  billow-like  broke  on  him. 

"O  hateful  entry,   hateful  countenance 

O'  the  widowed  halls,''  —  he  moaned.     What  was  to  be? 

Go  there  ?     Stay  here  ?     Speak,  not  speak  ?     All  was  now     400 

Mad  and  impossible  alike ;   one  way 

And  only  one  was  sane  and  safe  —  to  die : 

Now  he  was  made  aware  how  dear  is  death, 

How  lovable  the  dead  are,  how  the  heart 

Yearns  in  us  to  go  hide  where  they  repose,  405 

When  we  find  sunbeams  do  no  good  to  see, 

Nor  earth  rests  rightly  where  our  footsteps  fall. 

His  wife  had  been  to  him  the  very  pledge, 

Sun  should  be  sun,   earth  —  earth;   the  pledge  was  robbed, 

Pact  broken,  and  the  world  was  left  no  world.  410 

He  stared  at  the  impossible,   mad  life : 

Stood,  while  they  urged  "Advance  —  advance!     Go  deep 

Into  the  utter  dark,   thy  palace-core ! " 

They  tried  what  they  called  comfort,  —  "touched  the  quick 

Of  the  ulceration  in  his  soul,"  he  said,  415 

With  memories,  —  "once  thy  joy  was  thus  and  thus!" 

True  comfort  were  to  let  him  fling  himself 

Into  the  hollow  grave  o'  the  tomb,  and  so 

Let  him  lie  dead  along  with  all  he  loved.     . 

[  The  chorus  attempts  consolation,  but  is  interrupted  by  the  returti  of  Herakles^ 
Ay,  he  it  was  advancing!     In  he  strode,  420 

And  took  his  stand  before  Admetos,  —  turned 
Now  by  despair  to  such  a  quietude. 
He  neither  raised  his  face  nor  spoke,   this  time, 
The  while  his  friend  surveyed  him  steadily. 
That  friend  looked  rough  with  fighting:   had  he  strained      425 
Worst  brute  to  breast  was  ever  strangled  yet? 


266  BROWNING. 


Somehow,  a  victory  —  for  there  stood  the  strength, 

Happy,  as  always ;  something  grave,  perhaps ; 

The  great  vein-cordage  on  the  fret-worked  front, 

Black-swollen,  beaded  yet  with  battle-dew  430 

The  yellow^  hair  o'  the  hero !  —  his  big  frame 

A-quiver  with  each  muscle  sinking  back 

Into  the  sleepy  smooth  it  leaped  from  late. 

Under  the  great  guard  of  one  arm,  there  leant 

A  shrouded  something,  live  and  woman-like,  435 

Propped  by  the  heartbeats  'neath  the  lion-coat. 

When  he  had  finished  his  survey,  it  seemed, 

The  heavings  ot  tne  heart  began  subside. 

The  helpful  breath  returned,   and  last  the  smile 

Shone  out,  all  Heraklcs  was  back  again,  440 

As  the  words  followed  the  saluting  liand. 

"  To  friendly  man,   behoves  we  freely  speak, 

Admetos  !  —  nor  keep  buried,   deep  in  breast, 

Blame  we  leave  silent.     I  assuredly 

Judge  myself  proper,   if  I  should  approach  445 

By  accident  calamities  of  thine. 

To  be  demonstrably  thy  friend :   but  thou 

Told'st  me  not  of  the  corpse  then  claiming  care. 

That  was  thy  wife's,  but  didst  install  me  guest 

r  the  house  here,   as  though  busied  with  a  grief  450 

Indeed,  but  then,  mere  grief  beyond    thy  gate : 

And  so,   I  crowned  my  head,  and  to  the  Gods 

Poured  my  libations  in  tliy  dwelling-place. 

With  such  misfortune  round  me.      And  I  blame  — 

Certainly  blame  thee,   having  suffered  tlius  !  455 

But  still  I  would  not  pain  thee,   pained  enough  : 

So  let  it  pass !     Wherefore  I  seek  thee  now, 

Having  turned  back  again  though  onward  bound, 

That  I  will  tell  thee.     Take  and  keep  for  me 

This  woman,  till  I  come  thy  way  again,  460 

Driving  before  me,  having  killed  the  king 

O'  the  Bistones,   that  drove  of  Thrakian  steeds: 

In  such  case,  give  the  woman  back   to  me  ! 

But  should  J   fare, — as  fare  1   fain  would  not, 


A    TRANSCRIPT   FROM   EURIPIDES.  '1^1 

Seeing  I   hope  to  prosper  and  return,  —  465 

Then,   I   bequeath  her  as  thy  household  slave. 

She  came  into  my  hands  with  good  hard  toil ! 

For,  what  find  I,  when  started  on  my  course, 

But  certain  people,  a  whole  country-side. 

Holding  a  wrestling-bout?  as  good  to  me  470 

As  a  new  labor :  whence  I  took,  and  here 

Come  keeping  with  me,   this,   the  victor's  prize. 

For,  such  as  conquered  in  the  easy  work. 

Gained  horses  which  they  drove  away :  and  such 

As  conquered  in  the  harder,  —  those  who  boxed  475 

And  wrestled,  —  cattle ;  and,  to  crown  the  prize, 

A  woman  followed.     Chancing  as  I  did. 

Base  were  it  to  forego  this  fame  and  gain ! 

Well,   as  I  said,  I  trust  her  to  thy  care : 

No  woman  I  have  kidnapped,  understand !  480 

But  good  hard  toil  has  done  it :   here  I   come  ! 

Some  day,  who  knows?  even  thou  wilt  praise  the  feat!" 

Admetos  raised  his  face  and  eyed  the  pair : 

Then,   hollowly  and  with  submission,   spoke. 

And  spoke  again,   and  spoke  time  after  time,  485 

When  he  perceived  the  silence  of  his  friend 

Would  not  be  broken  by  consenting  word. 

As  a  tired  slave  goes  adding  stone  to  stone 

Until  he  stop  some  current  that  molests, 

So  poor  Admetos  piled  up  argument  490 

Vainly  against  the  purpose  all  too  plain 

In  that  great  brow  acquainted  with  command. 

"Nowise  dishonoring,   nor  amid  my  foes 

Ranking  thee,   did  I  hide  my  wife's  ill  fate ; 

But  it  were  grief  superimposed  on  grief,  495 

Shouldst  thou  have  hastened  to  another  home. 

My  own  woe  v/as  enough  for  me  to  weep ! 

But,  for  this  woman,  — if  it  so  may  be, — 

Bid  some  Thessalian,  —  I  entreat  thee,  king  !  — 

Keep  her, — who  has  not  suffered  like  myself!  500 

Many  of  the  Pheraioi  welcome  thee. 

Be  no  reminder  to  me  of  mv  ills ! 


268  BROWNING. 


I  could  not,   if  I  saw  lier  come  to  live. 

Restrain  the  tear  !     Inflict  on  me,   diseased, 

No  new  disease :  woe  bends  me  down  enough !  505 

Then,  where  could  she  be  sheltered  in  my  house. 

Female  and  young  too?     For  that  she  is  young, 

The  vesture  and  adornment  prove.     Reflect ! 

Should  such  an  one  inhabit  the  same  roof 

With  men?     And  how,   mixed  up,  a  girl,  with  youths,    510 

Shall  she  keep  pure,   in  that  case?     No  light  task 

To  curb  the  May-day  youngster,   Herakles  ! 

I  only  speak  because  of  care  for  thee. 

■Or  must  I,  in  avoidance  of  sucli  harm. 

Make  her  to  enter,  lead  her  life  within  1;  1 5 

The  chamber  of  the  dead  one,  all    apart? 

How  shall  I  introduce  this  other,   couch 

This  where  Alkestis  lay?     A  double  blame 

I  apprehend :   first,  from  the  citizens  — 

Lest  some  tongue  of  them  taunt  that  I  betray  520 

My  benefactress,  fall  into  the  snare 

Of  a  new  fresh  face :   then,  the  dead  one's  self,  — 

Will  she  not  blame  me  likewise?     Worthy,  sure. 

Of  worship  from  me  !  circumspect  my  ways. 

And  jealous  of  a  fault,  are  bound    to   be.  525 

But  thou, — O  woman,   whosoe'er  thou  art, — 

Know,  thou  hast  all  the  form,  art  like  as  like 

Alkestis,  in  the  bodily  shape  !     Ah  me  ! 

Take  —  by  the  Gods  —  this  woman  from  my  sight, 

Lest  this  undo  me,   the  undone  before!  530 

Since  I  seem  —  seeing  her  —  as  if  I  saw 

My  own  wife  !     And  confusions  cloud   my  heart. 

And  from  my  eyes  the  springs  break  forth !     Ah   me 

Unhappy  —  how  I  taste  for  the  first  time 

My  misery  in  all  its  bitterness!"  535 

Whereat  the  friends  conferred:    The  chance,   in  truth, 

Was  an  untoward  one  —  none  said  otherwise. 

Still,  what  a  God  comes  giving,  good  or  bad, 

That,  one  should  take   and  bear  with.      "Take  her,  then!" 

Herakles — not  unfiistening  his  hold  540 


A     TRANSCRIPT   FROM   EURIPIDES.  269 

On  that  same  misery,  beyond  mistake 

Hoarse  in  the  words,  convulsive  in  the  face,  — 

"  I  would  that  I  had  such  a  power,"  said  he, 

"As  to  lead  up  into  the  light  again 

Thy  very  wife,  and  grant  thee  such  a  grace !  "  545 

"Well  do  I   know  thou  wouldst :   but  where  the  hope? 
There  is  no  bringing  back  the  dead  to  light." 

"Be  not  extravagant  in  grief,   no  less! 
Bear  it,  by  augury  of  better  things  !  " 

" 'Tis  easier  to  advise   'bear  up,'  than  bear!"  550 

"But  how  carve  way  i'  the  life  that  lies  before, 
If  bent  on  groaning  ever  for  the  past  ? " 

"  I   myself  know  that:   but  a  certain  love 
Allures  me  to  the  choice  I   shall  not  change." 

"  Ay,  but,  still  loving  dead  ones,  still  makes  weep."       555 

"  And  let  it  be  so  !     She  has  ruined  me. 
And  still  more  than  I   say :   that  answers  all." 

"Oh,   thou  hast  lost  a  brave  wife:  who  disputes?" 

"So  brave  a  one — that  he  whom  thou  behold'st 

Will  never  more  enjoy  his  life  again  ! "  560 

' '  Time  will  assuage  !     The  evil  yet  is  young !  " 

"Time,   thou  mayst  say,   will;   if  time  mean  —  to  die." 

"A  wife  —  the  longing  for  new  marriage-joys 
Will  stop  thy  sorrow  !  " 

"Hush,  friend,  —  hold  thy  peace! 
What  hast  thou  said  !     I   could  not  credit  ear !  "  565 

"How  then?     Thou  wilt  not  marry,   then,   but  keep 
A  widowed  couch  ?  " 

"  There  is  not  any  one 
Of  womankind  shall  couch  with  whom  thou  seest !  " 

"D'ost  think  to  profit  thus  in  any  way 
The  dead  one  ?  " 


270  BROWNING. 


"  Her,   wherever  she  abide,  570 

My  duty  is  to  honor." 

' '  And  I  praise  — 
Indeed  I  praise  thee  !     Still,   thou  hast  to  pay 
The  price  of  it,   'n  being  held  a  fool !  " 

"Fool  call  me  —  only  one  name  call  me  not! 
Bridegroom !  " 

"No:   it  was  praise,   I  portioned  thee,         575 
Of  being  good  tme  husband  to  thy  wife !  " 

"When  I  betray  her,   though  she  is  no  more, 
May  I  die  !  " 

And  the  thing  he  said  was  true : 
For  out  of  Herakles  a  great  glow  broke. 
There  stood  a  victor  worthy  of  a  prize:  580 

The  violet-crown  that  withers  on  the  brow 
Of  the  half-hearted  claimant.     Oh,  he  knew 
The  signs  of  battle  hard  fought  and  well  won. 
This  queller  of  the  monsters !  —  knew  his  friend 
Planted  firm  foot,   now,   on  the  loathly  thing  585 

That  was  Admetos  late  !   '''  would  die,"  he  knew. 
Ere  let  the  reptile  raise  its  crest  again. 
If  that  was  truth,  why  try  the  true  friend  more? 

"Then,  since  thou  canst  be  faithful  to  the  death. 

Take,   deep  into  tliy  house,   my  dame!"  smiled  he.  590 

' '  Not  so  !  —  I  pray,  by  thy  Progenitor  !  " 

"  Thou  wilt  mistake  in  disobeving  me  !  " 

"Obeying  thee,    I   have  to  break  my  heart!" 

"  Obey  me  !     Who  knows  but  the  favor  done 

May  fau  into  its  place  as  duty  too?"  595 

So,   he  was   lu'mblc,   would  decline  no  more 

Bearing  a  burden:   he  just  sighed,    "Alas! 

Wouldst  thou  hadst   never  brought  this  prize  from  game  !  " 

"  Yet,   when   I   conc|uered  there,   thou  conquercdst  !  " 


A     TRANSCRIPT   FROM   EURIPIDES.  271 

"All  excellently  urged!     Yet  —  spite  of  all,  600 

Bear  with  me  !  let  the  woman  go  away ! " 

-'She  shall  go,   if  needs  must:   but  ere  she  go, 
See  if  there  is  need  !  " 

"Need  there  is!     At   least. 
Except  I   make  thee  angry  with  me,   so  !  " 

"But  I  persist,   because   I   have  my  spice  605 

Of  intuition  likewise  :   take  the  dame  !  " 

"Be  thou  the  victor  then!     But  certainly 
Thou  dost  thy  friend  no  pleasure  in   the  act !  " 

"Oh,   time   will  come  when  thou  shalt  praise  me!     Now-- 
Only  obey !  " 

"Then,   servants,   since  my  house  610 

Must  needs  receive  this  woman,   take  her  there  !  " 

''  I  shall  not  tnist  this  woman  to  the  care 
Of  servants." 

"Why,   conduct  her  in,   thyself, 
If  that  seem  preferable  !  " 

"  I  prefer, 
With  thy  good  leave,   to  place   her  in  thy  hands!"  615 

"I   would  not  touch  her!     Entry  to  the  house  — 
That,  I  concede   thee." 

"To  thy  sole  right  hand 
I  mean  to  trust  her !  " 

"King!     Thou  wrenchest  this 
Out  of  me  by  main  force,   if  I   submit ! " 

"Courage,  friend!     Come,  stretch  hand  forth  !     Good!     Now 
touch  620 

The  stranger-woman  !  " 

' '  There  !     A  hand  I   stretch  — 
As  though  it  meant  to  cut  oft"  Gorgon's  head  !  " 

"Hast  hold  of  her?" 

"  Fqst  hold." 


272  BROWNING. 


"Why,   then,   hold  fast 
And  have  her !   and,   one  day,   asseverate 
Thou  wilt,   I   think,   thy  friend,   the  son  of  Zeus,  625 

He  was  the  gentle  guest  to  entertain ! 
Look  at  her !     See  if  she,   in  any  way. 
Present  thee  with  resemblance  of  thy  wife  ! " 

Ah,  but  *ne  tears  come,  find  the  words  at  fault ! 

There  is  no  telling  how  the  hero  twitched  630 

The  veil  off:   and  there  stood,   with  such  fixed  eyes 

And  such  slow  smile,   Alkestis'  silent  self! 

It  was  the  crow^ning  grace  of  that  great  heart, 

To  keep  back  joy :  procrastinate  the  truth 

Until  the  wife,  who  had  made  proof  and  found  635 

Tlie  husband  wanting,   might  essay  once  more. 

Hear,  see,  and  feel  him  renovated  now  — 

Able  to  do,   now,  all  herself  had  done. 

Risen  to  the  height  of  her:   so,   hand  in  hand. 

The  two  might  go  together,   live  and  die.  640 

Beside,   when  he  found  speech,  you  guess  the  speech. 

He  could  not  think  he    saw  his  wife  again  : 

It  was  some  mocking  God  that  used  the  bliss 

To  make  him  mad  !     Till  Herakles  must  help  : 

Assure  him  that  no  spectre  mocked  at  all ;  645 

He  was  embracing  whom  he  buried  once. 

Still,  —  did  he  touch,  might  he  address  the  true, — 

True  eye,   true  body  of  the  true  live  wife? 

And  Herakles  said,  smiling,    "All  was  truth. 

Spectre?     Admetos  had  not  made  his  guest  650 

One  who  played  ghost-invoker,   or  such  cheat ! 

Oh,   he  might  speak  and  have  response,   in  time  ! 

All  heart  could  wish  was  gained  now  —  life  for  death  : 

Only  tlie  rapture  must   not  grow  immense  : 

Take  care,   nor  wake  the  envy  of  the  Gods!"  655 

"Oh  thou,  of  greatest  Zeus  true  son,"  —  .so  spoke 
Admetos  when  the  closing  word  must  come. 


A     TRANSCRIPr   FROM    EURIPTDES.  273 

"Go  ever  in  a  glory  of  success, 

And  save,   that  sire,   his  offspring  to  the  end  ! 

For  thou  hast — only  thou — raised  me  and  mine  660 

Up  again  to  this  light  and  life  !  "     Then  asked 

Tremblingly,   how  was  trod  the  perilous  path 

Out  of  the  dark  into  the  light  and  life : 

How  it  happened  with  Alkestis  there. 

And   Herakles  said  little,   but  enough  —  665 

How  he  engaged  in  combat  with  that  king 

O'  the  daemons :    how  the  field  of  contest  lay 

By  the  tomb's  self:   how  he  sprung  from   ambuscade. 

Captured  Death,   caught  him  in  that  pair  of  hands. 

But  all  the  time,  Alkestis  moved  not  once  670 

Out  of  the  set  gaze  and  the  silent  smile ; 
And  a  cold  fear  ran  through  Admetos'  frame  : 
"Why  does  she  stand  and  front  me,   silent  thus?" 

Herakles  solemnly  replied,    "Not  yet 

Is  it  allowable  thou  hear  the  things  675 

She  has  to  tell  thee ;  let  evanish  quite 

That  consecration  to  the  lower  Gods, 

And  on  our  upper  world  the  third  day  rise ! 

Lead  her  in,   meanwhile ;    good  and  true  thou  art. 

Good,  true,  remain  thou !     Practise  piety  680 

To  stranger-guests  the  old  way !     So,  farewell ! 

Since  forth  I   fare,   fulfil  my  urgent  task 

Set  by  the  king,   the  son  of  Sthenelos." 

Fain  would    Admetos  keep  that  splendid  smile 

Ever  to  lighten  him.      "Stay  with  us,   thou  heart!  685 

Remain  our  house-friend  !  " 

"  At  some  other  day  ! 
Now,   of  necessity,   I  haste  !  "  smiled  he. 

' '  But  niayst  thou  prosper,  go  forth  on  a  foot 

Sure  to  return  !     Through  all  the  tetrarchy, 

Command  my  subjects  that  they  institute  690 


274  BROWNING. 


Thanksgiving-dances  for  the  glad  ^vent, 

And  bid  each  altar  smoke  with  sacrifice  ! 

For  we  are  minded  to  begin  a  fresh 

Existence,  better  than  the  life  before  ; 

Seeing  I  own  myself  supremely  blest."'  695 

Whereupon  all  the  friendly  moralists 

Drew  this  conclusion :    chirped,   each  beard  to  each  : 

"Manifold  are  thy  shapings,   Providence! 

Many  a  hopeless  matter  Gods  arrange. 

What  we  expected  never  came  to  pass  :  70c 

What  we  did  not  expect  Gods  brought  to  bear ; 

So  have  things  gone,   this  whole  experience  through ! " 


Ah,  but  if  you  had  seen  the  play  itself! 

They  say,  my  poet  failed  to  get  the  prize : 

Sophokles  got  the  prize, — great  name!     They  say,  705 

Sophokles  also  means  to  make  a  piece. 

Model  a  new  Admetos,  a  new  wife : 

Success  to  him  !     One  thing  has  many  sides. 

The  great  name  !     But  no  good  supplants  a  good, 

Nor  beauty  undoes  beauty.     Sophokles  710 

Will  carve  and  carry  a  fresh  cup,   brimful 

Of  beauty  and  good,  firm  to  the  altar-foot, 

And  glorify  the  Dionusiac  shrine : 

Not  clash  against  this  crater  in  the  place 

Where  the  God  put  it  when  his  mouth  had  drained,        715 

To  the  last  dregs,  libation  life-blood-like. 

And  praised  Euripides  forevermore  — 

The  Hiittian  with  his  droppings  of  ivann  tears. 


TENNYSON. 


OENONE. 


There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand  5 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,   and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus  10 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning :  but  in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  CEnone,   wandering  forlorn  15 

Of  Paris,   once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seenVd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine. 
Sang  to  the  stillness,   till  the  mountain-shade  20 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  cliflf 

"  O  mother  Ida,   many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass :  25 

The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 


276  TENNYSON. 


Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are  dead. 

The  purple  flower  droops :   the  golden  bee 

Is  lily-cradled :   I  alone  awake. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,   my  heart  of  love ;  30 

My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 

And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  O  mother  Ida,   many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 

Hear  me,   O  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills,   O  Caves  35 

That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  !   O  mountain  LrookS; 
1  am  the  daughter  of  a   River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed,  40 

A  cloud  that  gathered  shape :   for  it  may  be 
That,  while  1  speak  of  it,   a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"  O  mother  Ida,   many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die.  45 

I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,   evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd,  white-hooved,  5c 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I   die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  calPd  me  from  the  cleft : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  downdropt  eyes  55 

I  sat  alone :   white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;   a  leopard  skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Clustered  about  his  temples  like  a  God's, 
And  his  cheek  brightened  as  the  foam-bow  brightens  60 

When  the  wind  lilows  the  foam,   and  all  my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming:  ere  he  came. 


(EN  ONE.  277 

"Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,   and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure   Hesperian  gold,  65 

That  smelt  ambrosially,   and  while  I  look'd 
And  listened,   the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 

liehold  this  fruit,   whose  gleaming  rind  ingrav'n  70 

"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it  thine. 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,   and  the  charm  of  married  brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die.  75 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added  '  This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;   whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  't  were  due :  80 

But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering,   that  to  me,  by  common  voice, 
Elected  umpire,   Her6  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphroditd,   claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave  85 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,   unheard 
Hear  all,   and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon  :   one  silvery  cloud  90 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower  they  came. 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower. 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel,  95 

Lotos  and  lilies :   and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,   in  many  a  wild  festoon 


278  TENNYSON. 


Ran  riot,   garlanding  tlie  gnarled  boughs 

With  bunch  and  berry  and  tiower  thro'  and  thro".  loo 

"  O  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean'd 
Upon  him,   slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom  105 

Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 

Unquestioned,  overflowing  revenue  no 

Wherewith  to  embellish  state,    '  from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,    '  and  homage,  tax,  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large,  115 

Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
'Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all;      ,  120 

Power  fitted  to  the  season ;   wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon  from  me. 
From  me,   Heaven's  Queen,   Paris,   to  thee  king-born,       125 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born. 
Should  come  most  w^elcome,   seeing  men,  in  power. 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 

Above  the  thunder,   with  undying  bliss  130 

In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's  length,   so  much  the   thought  of  power 


CENONE.  279 

Flattered  his  spirit;   but  Pallas  where  she  stood  135 

Somewhat  apart,   her  clear  and  bar^d  limbs 

O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 

Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 

The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 

Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek  140 

Kept  watch,   waiting  decision,   made  reply, 

"' Self- reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control. 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power,    (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncalPd  for)   but  to  live  by  law,  145 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:    'I   woo  thee  not  with  gifts.  150 

Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed. 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 

Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair,  155 

Unbiass'd  by  self  profit,   O,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks,  160 

Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,   and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased. 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,    'O  Paris,  165 

Give  it  to  Pallas  I '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me! 

"O  mother  Ida,   many-fountain'd  Ida. 
Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 


280  TEA  A' y SON. 


Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful,  170 

Fresh  as  the  foam,   new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 

With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 

From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  haia" 

Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 

And  shoulder:  from  the  violets  her  light  foot  175 

Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 

Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 

Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes,  180 

The  herald  of  her  triumph,   drawing  nigh 
Half-whisperd  in  his  ear,    '  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.' 
Slie  spoke  and  laugh'd :   I  shut  my  sight  for  fear  •- 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm,  185 

And  I  beheld  great  Herd's  angry  eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud. 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die.  190 

"Yet,  mother  Ida,   harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 

When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard,  395 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,   with  playful  tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.     Most  loving  is  she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew  200 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flasli  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"O  mother,   hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines. 
My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge  205 


(EN  ONE.  281 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 

The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 

Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet  —  from  beneath 

Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the  dark  morn 

The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,   while   I   sat  210 

Low  in  the  valley.      Never,   never  more 

Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 

Sweep  thro'  them  ;   never  see  them  overlaid 

With  narrow  moon-lit  slits  of  silver  cloud, 

Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars.  215 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,   I   could  meet  with  her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came  220 

Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change  ;   that  I  might  speak  my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,   hated  both  of  Gods  and  men.  225 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times, 
In  this  green  valley,   under  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears?  230 

O  happy  tears,   and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,   how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
O  happy  earth,   how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,   death,   death,   thou  ever-floating  cloud, 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth,  235 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  1  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 

Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die.  240 

' '  O  mother,   hear  me  yet  before  I  die, 
ji  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 


282  TENNYSON. 


Do  shape  themselves  within  me,   more  and  more, 

Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 

Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills,  245 

Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 

My  far-oflf  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 

Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 

Ere  it  is  born :   her  child  !  —  a  shudder  comes 

Across  me:   never  child  be  born  of  me,  250 

Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father''s  eyes ! 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,   O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death  255 

Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound  260 

Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  arm^d  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,   but  I  know- 
That,   wheresoe"er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE    MILLER'S    DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 

His  double  chin,   his  portly  size, 
And  wlio  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,   round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without. 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world? 


THE    MILLER'S   DAUGHTER.  283 

In  yonder  chair  I   see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup  —  i  o 

I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,   so  glad, 
So  healthy,   sound,   and  clear  and  whole,  15 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :   give  me  one  kiss : 

My  own  sweet  AUce,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by.  20 

There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away, 
Pray,   Alice,   pray,   my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I   not  found  a  happy  earth?  25 

I   least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine —  3c 

It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high  35 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each   morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song.  40 

And  oft  I   heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan; 
But  ere  I   saw  your  eyes,   my  love, 

i   had  no  motion  of  my  own. 


284  TENNYSON. 


For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd  45 

Before  I  dream'd  that  pleasant  dream  — 

Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise,  50 

And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  wlien  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,   that  hung  55 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,   Alice,   what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('Twas  April  then),   I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds  60 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,     nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read,  65 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rimes,  70 

The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.      In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood,  75 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck.  80 


THE    MILLER'S   DAUGHTER.  285 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  you  were  leaning  from  tlie  ledge : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,   above  85 

They  met  witli  two  so  full  and  bright  ^- 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you,   my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispelPd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death :  90 

For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  filPd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought,  what  ails  the  boy? 

For  I  was  altered,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy,  95 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still,  loa 

The  mealsacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor. 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold,  105 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope,  no 

From  off  the   wold  I   came,   and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,    "she  sits!" 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill  115 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 


286  TENNYSON. 


"O  that  I  were  beside  her  now! 

O,   will  she  answer  if  I   call? 
O,  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,   if  I  told  her  all  ?"  120 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin ; 

And,   in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light,  125 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darkened  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,   were  white  with  May,  130 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,   but  your  cheek 

Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 
And  so  it  was  —  half-sly,   half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,   little  one  ! 
Although   I   pleaded  tenderly,  135 

And  you  and   I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wished  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher;  140 

And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed : 

"Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I   went  to  fetch  my  bride:  145 

But,   Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not   please. 
I   loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I   knew  you  could  not  look  but  well;  150 

And  dews,   that  would  have  falFn  in  tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 


THE    MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  287 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see ; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things,  155 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,   and,   with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  pressed  you  heart  to  heart.  160 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

1  gave  you,   Alice,   on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I   may  seem,  165 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  is  the   miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,   so  dear,  170 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
rd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I   would  be  the  girdle  175 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 
And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 
And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 
I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight.  180 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace. 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom. 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 
And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light,  185 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


288  TENNYSON. 


A  trifle,  sweet!  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own.  I  go 

So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rime  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone,  195 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art. 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-angerd  with  my  happy  lot  200 

The  day,  w^hen  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue   Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 

Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 

Many  suns  arise  and  set.  205 

Many  a  chance  the   years  beget. 

Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret.  210 

Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet- 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 
Ah,  no  !  no  ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife,  215 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine ! 
Untouched  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell !  220 

They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears. 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 


THE    PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  28^ 

Yet  tears  they  shed :    they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :   for  when  time   was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart  225 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before ; 
Alt]iough  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more,  .  230 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee : 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who  wrought  235 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ;  240 

For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass  245 

Is  dry  and  dewless.      Let  us  go. 


THE     PASSING    OF     ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knights, 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,   new  faces,   other  minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward,   Bedivere, 
Who  slowly  jjaced  among  the  slumbering  host. 
Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the  King : 


2i)0  TENNYSON. 


'  I  found  Him  in  the  sliining  of  the  stars, 
I   marked    Him  in  the  flowering  of  His  fields,  iq 

But  in  His  wayh  with  men  I  find  Him  not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and  die. 
O  me !  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 
As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world, 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would,  15 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond. 
And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful } 
Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair. 
But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and  dim, 
And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is ;  20 

Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the  close ;  — 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work  His  will, 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in  vain; 
And  all  whereon  I  lean'd  in  wife  and  friend 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my  realm  25 

Reels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no  more. 
iMy  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in  in^'  death: 
Nay  —  God  my  Christ  —  I  pass  but  shall  not  die  ' 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  west 

There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gavvain  kilPd  3c 

In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain  blown 

Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 

Went  shrilling  '  Hollow,  hollow  all  delight ! 

Hail,  king  !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  away. 

Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee.  35 

And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 

And  hollow,  hollow,   hollow  all  delight.'' 

And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that  change 

Th  vx  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their  way 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the  dream         40 

Shriird ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim  cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills. 

As  of  some  lonely  city  sackYl  by  night. 

When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  wail 

Pass  to  new  lords;  and  Arthur  woke  and  calPd,  45 

'Who  spake?     A  dream.     O  light  upon  the  wind. 


THE    PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  291 

Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  —  are  these  dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with  me  ? ' 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and  spake :  50 

'  O  me,   my  king,   let  pass  whatever  will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 

For  ever:  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass.  55 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people  and  knights  60 

Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the  king. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.' 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere :  65 

'  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove  in  youth. 
And  brake  the  petty  Kings  and  fought  with  Rome 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.     Ill  doom  is  mine  70 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  himself. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me  once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way  75 

Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world.' 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his  host  by  night. 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by  league,  80 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 


292  TENNYSON. 


V>\  fire,   to  sink  into  tlie  abyss  again ; 

Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 

And  tlie  long  mountains  ended  in  a  co3.st  85 

Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 

The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 

There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more, 

And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  king ; 

And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of  heaven  90 

Burn'd  at  his  lowest    in  the  rolling  year. 

On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they  closed. 

Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 

Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west. 

A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea :  95 

Whereof  the  chill,   to  him  who  breathed  it,   drew 

Down  with  his  blood,   till  all  his  heart  was  cold 

With  formless  fear :  and  ev'n  on  Arthur  fell 

Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought. 

For  friend  and  foe  were  sliadows  in  the  mist,  100 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew 

And  sgme  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth. 

And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 

Look  in  upon  the  battle ;  and  in  the  mist 

Was  many  a  noble  deed,   many  a  base,  105 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in  single  fights. 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail  hewn 

Shield-breakings,   and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 

Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and  shrieks  no 

After  the  Christ,   of  those  who  falling  down 

Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights, 

Oaths,  insult,   filth,  and  monstrous  blasphemies, 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,   laboring  of  the  lungs  1 1  5 

In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the  light, 

Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,   or  tliro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore,  120 


THE    PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  293 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 

A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous  day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 

A  bitter  wind,   clear  from  the  North,  and  blew 

The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide  125 

Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across  the  field 

Of  battle :  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 

Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 

Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 

Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro  130 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and  down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the  fallen. 

And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought  with  Rome, 

And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 

The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be.  135 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that'  all  day  long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King : 

'  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that  shakes  the  world. 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we  move,  140 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for  me?  — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  falPn 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am. 

Nor  whence  I  am,   nor  whether  I   be  king.  145 

Behold,   I  seem  but  king  among  the  dead.' 

Then  spake  the  bold   Sir  Bedivere  :    '  My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead  have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 

Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live  150 

Who  love  thee ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,   the  traitor  of  thine  house.' 

Then  spake  the  King:  '  My  house  hath  been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house  155 


294  TEN.VYSON. 


Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof  with  me. 

My  liouse  are  rather  they  who  sware  my  vows, 

Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd  me  king. 

And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  liour, 

When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath  fail'd,  i6o 

That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  king. 

King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry; 

And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou  see 

Vet,  ere  I  pass.'     And  uttering  this  the  king 

Made  at  the  man:   then  Modred  smote  his  liege  165 

Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen  sword 

Had  beaten  thin;  while  Arthur  at  one  blow. 

Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 

Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd  170 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him,  175 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full.  i8c 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowshii^  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.      Sucli  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we  185 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, —  190 

Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more;   but  let  what  will  be,  be. 


THE    PASSING    OF   ARTHUR.  295 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 

That  without  help  I   cannot  last  till  morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur,  1 95 

Which  was  my  pride  :   for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,   mystic,   wonderful. 

Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd  across  200 

And  took  it,   and  have  worn  it,   like  a  king ; 

And,   wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  aftertime,   this  also  shall  be  known: 

But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere :  205 

Watch  what  thou  seest :  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  It  is  not  meet.   Sir  King,   to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm  — 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man;  210 

Yet   I   thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,   and  lightly  bring  thee  word.' 

So  saying,   from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men,  215 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,   chill,   with  flakes  of  foam.      He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur,  220 

And  o'er  him,   drawing  it,   the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt ; 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work  225 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood. 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 


296  TENNYSON/. 


In  act  to  throw :   but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 

Better  to  leave  ExcaUbur  conceard  23a 

There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  T  gave?  235 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,   faint  and  pale :  240 

'  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,   nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,   or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere.  245 

This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,   I  charge  thee,   quickly  go  again. 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee ;   watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere   the  second  time  250 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,   and  he  cried  aloud:  255 

'  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,   one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,   if  this  were  done?  260 

What  harm,  undone?     Deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeinsj  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 


THE    PASSLXG    OF   ARTHUR.  297 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,   if  a  king  demand 

An  act  unprofitable,   against  himself  ? 

The  King  is  sick,   and  knows  not  what  he  does.  265 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumors  of  a  doubt?     But  were  this  kept. 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms,  270 

Saying,   '  King  Arthur's  sword,   Excalibur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,   sitting  in  the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime  275 

To  all  the  people,   winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost.' 

So  spake  he,   clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King.  280 

Then  spoke   King  Arthur,   breathing  heavily : 
'What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.'  285 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,   much  in  wrath: 
«  Ah  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 

Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye  290 

That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,   or  like  a  girl  295 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasures  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,   for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence : 
But,   if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.'  300 


298  TEX.YYSON. 


Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon,  305 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arc!i, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur:  31c 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,   rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King.  315 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath : 
•  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard  or  seen  ? ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  I3edivere : 
'  Sir  King,   I  closed  m.ine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems  320 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  si'w. 
Nor  shall  see,   here  or  elsewhere,   till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him;  325 

But  when  I  looked  again,   behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  \vrr 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the   mere.' 

And  answer  made   King  Arthur,   breathing  hard :  330 

'  My  end  draws  nigh ;   'tis  time  that   I   were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hatli  taken  cold,  and  1  sliall  die.' 

So  saying,   from  the  pavement  lie  half  rose,  335 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  liis  arm. 


THE   PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  299 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 

As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words ;  340 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 

O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 

And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,   as  he  walk'd,   King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed  345 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.      So  sigh"d  the   King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,    '  Quick,   quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.' 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking  as  he  walk'd,  350 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.      His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
■Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,   and  all  to  left  and  right  355 

The  bare  black  clifif  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,   lo  !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon.  360 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these        365 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold :  and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 

All  night  in  a  waste  land,   where   no  one  comes,  370 

Or  hath   come,   since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,    '  Place  me  in  the  barge ; ' 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 


300  TENNYSON. 


Put  forth  theix  hands,   and  took  the  King,   and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all  375 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 

And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name,   complaining  loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood :   for  all  his  face  was  white         380 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  witherM  moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun  385 

High  from   the  dai's-throne  —  were  parch'd  with  dust; 

Or,   clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

IMix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King; 

Not  like  that  Arthur,  who,   with  lance  in  rest,  390 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged. 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'Ah,   my  lord  Arthur,   whither  shall  I  go?  395 

Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  1   see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led  400 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years,  405 

Among  new  men,   strange  faces,   other  minds.' 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
'  The  old   order  changeth,   yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  liimself  in  many  ways. 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the   world.  410 


THE    PASSING    OF   ARTHUR.  301 

Comfort  thyself:   what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 

May  He  within  liimself  make  pure !  but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer  415 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 

If,   knowing  God,   they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer  420 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them   friend? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  425 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;    but  it  lies 

Deep-meadowVl,   happy,   fair  with  orchard-lawns  430 

And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea. 

Where  I   will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound.' 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,   like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death,  435 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away.  440 

But  when  that   moan  had  past  for  evermore, 
Tlie  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  winter  dawn 
Amazed  him,  and  he  groan'd,   '  The  King  is  gone.' 
And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird  rhyme, 
•  From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes.'  445 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn'd    and  slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 


302  ten.vyson: 


450 


Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving  yet,  and  cried, 

•  He  passes  to  be  King  among  the  dead, 

And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 

He  comes  again  ;   but  —  if  he  come  no  more  — 

O  me,   be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat. 

Who  shriek'd  and  waiPd,  the  three  whereat  we  gazed 

On  that  high  day,  when,   clothed  with  living  light. 

They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence,   friends  455 

Of  Arthur,   who  should  help  him   at  his  need?' 


Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,   but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 

Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice  4oo 

Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand. 
Or  thought  he  saw,   the  speck  that   bare  the  King,  465 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go, 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 


THE    SPLENDOR    FALLS. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,   bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,   bugle ;  answer,   echoes,   dying,   dying,   dying. 

O  hark,   O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,   clearer,   farther  going! 


HOME    THEY  BROUGHT  HER    WARRIOR  DEAD.   303 

O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing!  lo 

Blow,   let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,   bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,   dying,  dying. 

O  love,   they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul,  1 5 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,   echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


HOME   THEY   BROUGHT    HER   WARRIOR   DEAD. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead: 

She  nor  swoon'd,   nor  utter'd  cry : 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

'  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.' 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low,  S 

Caird  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept,  10 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Vet  she   neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears-  15 

♦  Sweet,  my  child,   I  live  for  thee.'' 


304  TENNYSON. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,   O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy,  5 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill;  10 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead  15 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE    BROOK. 


I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I   make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 


THE    BROOK.  305 


Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  tlie  brimming  river,  lo 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I   chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays,  15 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With   many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow.  20 

I  chatter  chatter,   as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on   for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out,  25 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout. 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel  30 

With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,   and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  35 

But  I   go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lOvers.  40 


306  TENNYSON. 


I  slip,   I  slide,   I  gloom,   1  glance. 

Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I   murmur  under  moon  and  stars  45 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river,  50 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  20  on  for  ever. 


CROSSING    THE    BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,  5 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark  !  10 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

W^hen   1   embark ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place, 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  15 

When  I   have  crost  the  bar. 


NOTES 


FROM  MILTON  TO  TENNYSON 


MASTERPIECES  OF   ENGLISH  POETRY 


BY 


L.    DUPONT     SYLE,    M.A,    (yale) 

AssociATB  Professor  of  English   Literature  in  the   University 
OF   California 


(Copyright,  1S94,  by  L.  D.  SyLE) 


Boston 

ALLYN      AND      BACON 

AND  CHICAGO 


CONTENTS   OF  THE   NOTES. 


PAGE 

List  of  Abbreviations .        .  2 

Milton       ...........  3 

Introduction  to  Drvden  and  Pope 24 

Dryden 25 

Pope 35 

Thomson 51 

Johnson 56 

Gray 63 

Goldsmith         , 69 

COWPER -75 

Burns 78 

The  Revival  of  Romanticism          ......  87 

Coleridge          ..........  88 

Byron .95 

Keats         ...........  107 

Shelley 115 

Wordsworth     . 122 

Macaulay 129 

Clough 137 

Matthew  Arnold 141 

Browning 146 

Tennyson 151 

Some  Attempts  to  Define  Poetry         .         .        .        ,        ,  160 


LIST    OP    ABBREVIATIONS, 


Brewer  =  Brewer's  Dictionary  of  Piirase  and  Fable. 

Cl.  Myths  =  Gayley's  Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature. 

E.  M.  L.  =  English  Men  of  Letters  Series. 

Gt.  Wr.  =  Great  Writers  Series. 

Green  =  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People. 

Rich  =  Rich's  Dictionary  of  Greek  and  Roman  Antiquities. 

Whitney  =  Whitney's  Essentials  of  English  Grammar. 


(»( 


JOHN    MILTON. 


Born  in  London,  1608,  nine  years  after  the  birth  of  Cromwell  and  eight  years 
beiore  tlie  death  of  Shakespeare.  Took  his  Bachelor's  degree  in  1629  and  his 
Master's  degree  in  1632  at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge ;  Cromwell  was  at  the 
same  University,  1616-17.  Wrote  his  most  famous  minor  poems  at  his  father's 
home  at  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  1632-8.  Visited  Italy,  1638-9.  The  next 
twenty  years  were  devoted  chiefly  to  serving  the  Commonwealth.  Lost  his 
eyesight  about  1652.  Paradise  Lost  did  not  appear  till  1667.  Milton  died  in 
1674  ;  two  years  later  was  produced  Etheredge's  77^1?  Man  of  Mode  —  the  first 
good  English  Comedy  of  Manners  —  and  the  transition  from  the  Puritan  to  the 
Restoration  Period  is  complete. 

Friends  and  Associates  —  Diodati,  Cyriack  Skinner,  Marvell;  Vane, 
Cromwell. 

Other  Contemporaries  —  Galileo,  Mazarin,  Bunyan,  Dryden. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  'Times.  —  Masson's  Life  of  John  Milton  Narrated  in  Connection 
with  the  Political,  Ecclesiastical  and  Literary  History  of  His  Time.  6  vols. 
(Macmillan). 

For  the  advanced  student  this  book  is  invaluable  as  a  storehouse  of  mate- 
rial. Better  for  the  beginner  are  the  shorter  lives  hy  Pattison  (E.  M.  L.)  and 
by  Garnett  (Gt.  Wr.)  The  former  is  useful  on  the  literary  side ;  the  latter  on 
the  political  and  religious.  Green's  'Puritan  England'  (being  the  8th  chapter 
of  his  Short  History)  may  also  be  consulted  with  much  profit. 

Text. —  Masson's  (Macmillan). 

Criticism.  —  Addison;   Spectator,   Nos.   267,   273,  279,  285,   291,   297,  303, 

309.  315.  321,  327.  333.  339.  345.  351.  357.  3^3.  369-  "  •  .  •  the  fault 
of  Addison's  Miltonic  criticism,  once  so  celebrated  [is  that]  it  rests  almost 
entirely  upon  convention."  —  Matthew  Arnold. 

Mac  ail  lay ;  Essay  on  Milton. — Astonishing  as  a  piece  of  rhetoric,  but 
extremely  superficial  as  criticism. 

DeQuincey  ;  Essay  on  "Johnson  s  Life  of  Milton.  Chiefly  a  correction  of  John- 
son's prejudiced  view. 

Etnerson ;  Essays  from  the  North  Am.  Rev.;  John  Milton.  Dwells  on  the 
heroic  side  of  Milton's  character. 

Bagehot;  Literary  Studies,  Vol.L;  John  Milton.  Calls  attention,  not  un- 
justly, to  Milton's  unlovely  side,  but  is  also  appreciative  and  sympathetic. 

(3) 


NOTES    TO    MILTON. 


Lowell ;  Essay  on  Milton.  Largely  a  criticism,  in  Lowell's  inimitable  style, 
of  Masson's  mountainous  book  and  defective  literary  method.  Contains,  also, 
invaluable  remarks  on  Milton's  versification. 

Matthew  Arnold ;  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series  ;  Milton.  Also,  Mixed 
Essays  ;  A  French  Critic  on  Milton.  The  most  sane  and  judicious  estimate  we 
have. 

Mark  Pattison;   The  Sonnets  of  John  Milton.     (Appleton). 


L'ALLEGRO   AND   IL   PENSEROSO. 

Introduction.  —  These  two  poems  were  probably  written  at  Horton 
between  1632  and  1637.  In  them,  Milton  looks  at  Nature  rather  with  the  eyes 
of  an  Elizabethan  of  the  Ben  Jonson  type  than  with  those  of  a  Wordsworthian. 
Man  and  the  life  of  Man  are  what  chiefly  interest  him  ;  Nature  is  secondary  and 
interesting  only  so  far  as  it  reflects  the  emotions  of  L' Allegro  (The  Cheerful 
Man)  2iX\A  11  Penseroso  [Pensieroso]  (The  Thoughtful  Man).  The  student,  the 
classical  scholar,  the  solitary  thinker,  the  poet  whose  generous  soul  is  open  to 
every  kind  of  beautiful  impression  —  this  is  what  we  find  here.  We  do  not  find 
such  close  observation  of  Nature,  such  accurate  recording  of  natural  phenom- 
ena and  such  spiritual  interpretations  of  them  as  characterize  a  Shelley  and  a 
Wordsworth. 

Each  of  the  poems  describes  a  period  of  about  twelve  hours.  In  the  Allegro 
it  is  from  morn  till  evening ;  in  the  Penseroso  from  evening  till  morn.  The  stu- 
dent should  notice  the  frequent  and  studied  contrasts  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion ;  after  a  careful  comparative  study  of  the  two  poems,  let  him  ask  himself 
which  of  them  affords  the  deeper  and  truer  insight  into  the  soul  of  the  man, 
John  Milton.    And  why  ? 

L'ALLEGRO. 

1-4.  Notice  the  omission  of  the  verb,  the  idea  of  action  being 
implied   in   the  adverb.  Cerberus;   the  three-headed  dog  who 

guarded   the  entrance   to    the    Underworld.  Stygian;    dark  or 

gloomv,  from  Styx,  one  of  the  rivers  bounding  the  L^nderworld ;  CI. 
Mvths,  §  48.  The  storj  here  referred  to  is  not  found  in  the  Greek 
mythology. 

5-10.  uncouth;  literally  'unknown,'  hence  foreign,  strange,  bar- 
barous, brooding;  wrapt  in  gloomy  thought.  What  is  the 
literal  meaning.?  Of  what  is  Darkness  jealous.'  low-browed; 
compare  Milton's  peculiar  use  of  '  brow,'  as  a  verb,  in  Comus,  531-2  ; 

.     .     .    hard  by  the  hilly  crofts 
That  brow  this  bottom  glade. 

Cimmerian.  Is  the  epithet  '  dark '  tautological .''  The  famous  lines 
in  Odyssey  XI.  tell  us  of  the  mythical  Cimmerii  that,  "  Never  on 
them  does  the  shining  sun  look  down     •     -     •     but  deadly  night  is 


VALLEGRO. 


spread  abroad  over  these  hapless  men."  The^'  were  fabled  to  dwell 
by  the  Ocean-stream,  at  the  limits  of  the  earth. 

11-16.  yclept;  the  j  in  this  word  is  derived  from  ^e,  regularly 
used  in  Old  English  as  a  prefix  of  the  past  participle  and  still  so 
used  in  German.  Compare  yfoiuting,  in  Milton's  lines  On  Shake- 
speare (p.  15),  where  the  j  is  incorrectly  prefixed  to  the  pi-esent  par- 
ticiple. Euphrosyne  (f  1;  ^/)//^) ;  from  the  Greek  en,  well  or 
easy,  and  phren,  the  mind.  Venus  (Aphrodite) ;  the  goddess 
of  love  and  beauty;  CI.  Myths,  §  40.  two  sister  Graces;  Agiaia 
(The  Bright  One),  and  Thalia  (The  Blooming  One).  The  Graces 
presided  over  social  pleasures.  Bacchus  (Dionysus) ;  the  god 
of  wine;  CI.  Myths,  §  46. 

17-24.  Some  sager;  i.e.,  the  poet  himself.  Notice  Milton's 
characteristic  (Puritan)  preference  for  calling  Mirth  the  daughter 
of  tile  West  Wind  and  the  Dawn — fresh  and  pure  influences  of 
Nature  —  rather  than  of  Bacchus  and  Venus  (Wine  and  Love). 
Zephyr;   the  west  wind.  Aurora  (Eos);  goddess  of  the  dawn. 

a-Maying;  the  '  a'  here  is  a  corruption  of  '  on,'  as  in  ashore,  ajioat, 
aboard.  buxom;   literally  'easily  bent,'  hence  'pliant,'  'obe- 

dient.' As  obedience  (in  woman)  was  long  considered  a  cardinal 
virtue  (by  man)  the  word  may  in  this  way  have  acquired  the  mean- 
ings of  '  charming,'  '  comely,'  '  cheerful  and  healthy.' 

25-32.  Notice  the  light  and  rapid  effect  of  the  trochaic  measure. 
thee;  reflexive  object,  as  'me'  in 

I  look  and  long,  then  haste  me  home 
Still  master  of  my  secret  rare. 

Lowell.    The  Foot-Path.    13-14. 

cranks;  turns  or  twists  (of  speech).  Hebe;  cup-bearer  of  the 

gods. 

33-36.  trip  it.  Notice  the  colloquial  use  of  an  intransitive  verb 
with  a  kind  of  impersonal  object,  the  pronoun  probably  representing 
a  cognate  noun-object;    Whitney,  §  362,  c.  Mountain-nymph. 

Your  historical  reading  may  suggest  to  you  the  reason  for  this 
epithet  applied  to  Liberty. 

37-52.  The  three  infinitives  in  this  passage  may  depend  anon 
admit,  or  the  second  may  depend  upon  the  first  and  the  third  upon 
the  second.  If  we  take  lark  as  the  subject  of  to  come  (45),  we  are 
committed  to  the  absurdity  of  the  soai-ing  lark  coming  to  a  window ; 
if  we  take  me  as  the  subject,  we  are  puzzled  to  know  to  whom  the 
poet   bids    good    morrow.     Botius  dormitat  Homerus.  twisted 

eglantine;  the  eglantine  is  not  twisted  and  is  the  same  as  the  sweet 
briar.     Milton  may  have  mistaken  it  for  the  honeysuckle.  be- 

fore.   Is  this  an  adverb  or  a  preposition  ? 


NOTES    TO    MILTON. 


53-68.  listening  (53)  and  walking  (57)  are  grammatically  con- 
nected with  lines  38-9.  liveries;  in  Middle  English  'lyverev' 
(from  the  Middle  Latin  (^res)  libcrata,  a  thing  delivered)  signified  a 
regular  allo\\ance  of  food  or  clothes,  delivered  to  the  servants  of  a 
household.  dight ;  '  arrayed,'  from  the  Middle  English  '  dighten,' 
to  set  in  order,  arrange.  This  is  cognate  with  the  modern  German 
word  Dichter  meaning  Poet :  he  who  sets  in  order  and  arranges 
(verses).  tells  his  tale,  not  'makes  love,'  but  (literally) 
'  coimts  his  number,'  that  is,  numbers  his  flock.  The  original 
meaning  of  '  tell '  is  '  count,'  preserved  in  the  expression  '  She  tells 
her  beads ; '  tale  in  the  sense  of  '  number '  or  '  sum '  is  very  common 
in  the  161 1  version  of  the  Bible  and  is  so  used  by  George  Eliot, 
Mill  on  the  Floss,  \T.  13. 

6g-8o.  lawns;  open  spaces  between  woods.  In  Par.  Lost,  IV. 
252,  we    have,    '  Betwixt  them  lawns  or  level  downs.'  daisies 

pied;  this  is  evidently  a  reminiscence  of  Shakespeare's 

When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight  — 

Love's  Labor's  Lost,  v.   2.   (near    the    end).  Lines  77-8  were 

probably  suggested  by  Windsor  Castle,  which  is  not  far  from  Mor- 
ton, lies.  In  Othello  iii.  4.  Desdemona  uses  this  word  and  in- 
terprets it  for  the  clown  as  lodges,  which  is  the  meaning  here. 
Cynosure ;  a  word  whose  figurative  meaning  is  extraordinarily 
different  from  the  literal  one.  With  the  aid  of  the  dictionary  trace 
the  process  by  which  the  Greek  kuiiostira  (uvvdaovfia),  dog's-tail,  has 
come  to  be  a  possible  epithet  for  "  some  beauty." 

81-90.  Corydon  and  Thyrsis ;  \'ergilian  names  for  shepherds ; 
Eclogue  VII.  2.  met;  notice  the  condensation  in  this  construc- 

tion :    expand    it.  Phillis;    Thestylis ;  common  names    in    the 

Greek    poets,    for    rustic    maidens.  bower  =  inner    room.     In 

Chaucer's  Nonne  Prestes  Tale  we  find  that  the  poor  widow  had  onl_\- 
two  rooms  in  her  house,  a  '  halle '  and  a  '  hour.' 

91-103.  rebecks;  the  rebeck  was  a  musical  instrument  with  a 
pear-shaped  body  and  two  or  three  strings.  It  is  supposed  to  be  of 
Moorish  origin.  Faery  Mab ;    see  Mercutio's  famous  lines  in 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  i.  4.  Feat;  eat.     As  late  as  Pope  'ea'  was 

doubtless  pronounced  like  a  in  'fate.' 

Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three  realms  obey. 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take  —  and  sonictiines  tea. 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  III.  7-8. 


n  ALLEGRO. 


She  was  pinched  and  pulled  j  lazy  servant  girls,  according  to  the 
story,  were  so  punished  by  Robin  Good  Fellow  (Puck).  There  are 
innumerable  references  to  this  in  English  Literature,  the  best  known 
of  course  being  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  ii.  i.  In 
Butler's  Hudibras,   III.  i.   line   1407  et  seq.  we  have  another: 

Thou  art  s6me  paltry,  blackguard  sprite 
Condemned  to  drudgery  in  the  night ; 


You  dare  not  be  so  troublesome 

To  pinch  the  slatterns  black  and  blue 

For  leaving  you  their  work  to  do. 

104-116.  Some  commentators,  who  seem  to  regard  mythology  as 
an  exact  science,  are  greatly  distressed  over  the  '  confusion  '  which 
Milton  has  here  introduced  into  the  fairy  world.  Since  mythology 
in  general  is  the  creation  of  the  poetic  mind  of  primitive  peoples,  and 
since  fairy  mythology  in  particular  is  "fantasy  .  .  .  thin  of 
substance  as  the  air,"  let  us  not  share  the  grief  of  Dryasdust  at  the 
poet's  '  error.'  Those  who  would  be  learned  in  these  matters  may 
consult  Keightley's  Fairy  Mythology,  where  they  will  find  given 
the  exact  difference  between  Friar  Rush,  the  house-spirit,  and  Will 
o'  the  Wisp,  the  field-spirit.  the  drudging  goblin;  see  the  quo- 

tation   from    Hudibras,    above.  lubber  =  awkward.     This    old 

word  is  now  seldom  heard  except  in  the  conversation  of  sailors, 
where  '  land-lubber'  and  '  lubber't-hole'  have  well  understood  mean- 
ings. Consult  the  Diet.  chimney,  in  its  original  sense  of 
hearth.  What  is  the  syntax  of  length  ?  crop-full  =  with 
full  stomach.  Crop  signifies  originally  'a  rounded,  projecting 
mass,  a  protuberance'  (Cent.  Diet.);  from  this  are  derived  its  nu- 
merous other  meanings. 

117-124.  Weeds  =  garments.  This,  the  original  meaning  of  the 
Old  English  -waed,  survives  in  the  expression  "widow's  weeds." 
In  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale  (147-9)  it  is  used  (as  here)  of  men's 

attire : 

To  ransack  in  the  tas  of  bodyes  dede 
Hem  for  to  strepe  of  harneys  and  of  wede 
The  pilours  diden  bisynesse  and  cure. 

Store,  literally  '  that  which  is  provided  or  furnished  for  use  as 
needed,'  hence,  an  abundance.  rain  influence;  an  allusion  to 

the  astrological  belief  that  the  radiation  of  power  from  the  stars 
affects  the  fate  of  men  ;  compare  '  influenza.' 

126-134.  Hymen;  the  god  of  marriage.  He  is  represented  as 
carrying,  in  the  bridal  procession,  the  bridal  veil  (saffron  robe)  and 
a  torch.     The  symbolic  meanings  of  the  saffron  and  of  the  torch 


NOTES    TO    MILTON. 


must  have  been  lost  in  pre-historic  times,  for  the  explanations  of 
the  Latin  writers  themselves  seem  to  be  pure  conjectures.  Na- 
tions differ  curiously  in  their  choice  of  wedding  colors ;  in  China 
the  bride  wears  red ;  in  Japan  and  among  ourselves,  white,  doubt- 
less as  an  emblem  of  puritv.  Why  orange-blossoms  also?  If  there 
is  any  connection  with  the  saffron  of  the  Romans,  it  has  not  yet 
been    traced.  Masks  were   a  popular   form    of   entertainment 

at  the  time  the  Allegro  was  written.  Ben  Jonson  (line  132)  wrote 
many;  Milton  himself  wrote  two.  Arcades  and  Comus ;  Shake- 
speare has  introduced  one  with  beautiful  effect  in  the  4th  Act  of 
the  Tempest.  Jonson;  the  friend  of  Shakespeare  and  after  him, 

with  the  possible  exception  of  Fletcher,  the  greatest  of  Elizabethan 
dramatists.  His  extensive  knowledge  of  the  classics  led  him  to  form 
his  plays  upon  classic  models.  His  best  acting  comedy  (Epicoene 
or  The  Silent  Woman)  is  not  inferior  to  some  of  Shakespeare's. 
Sock ;  the  actors  in  classic  comedy  wore  a  low  shoe  or  slipper 
called  by  the  Romans  soccus ;  hence,  by  metonymy,  sod'  stands  for 
comedy.  wood-notes    wild;    the    romantic    drama    of    Shake- 

speare, with  his  little  Latin  and  less  Greek,  did  not  altogether  suit 
the  taste  of  such  learned  men  as  Ben  Jonson  and  Milton.  Yet  they 
both  loved  and  admired  him.  See  Milton's  lines  On  Shakespeare 
(p.  15)  and  Jonson's  verses  printed  under  the  portrait  of  Shake- 
speare in  the  folio  of   1623. 

This  Figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 
Wherein  the  Grauer  had  a  strife 
With  Nature  to  out-doo  the  life; 
O,  could  he  but  have  drawne  his  wit 
As  well  in  brasse,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face;  the  Print  would  then  surpasse 
All,  that  was  ever  writ  in  brasse. 
But,  since  he  cannot,  Reader,  looke 
Not  on  his  Picture,  but  his  Booke. 

135-152.  Lydian;  the  Greeks  divided  their  scale  according  to  three 
recognized  modes,  which  they  called  respectively  the  Dorian,  the 
Phrygian  and  the  Lydian.  They  believed  that  each  mode  had  some 
peculiar  aesthetic  and  ethical  value;  the  province  of  Lydia  in  Asia 
Minor  was  famous  for  its  wealth  and  luxury  :  hence  this  Lydian 
mode  may  have  become  associated  with  the  idea  of  voluptuousness 
in  music.  Musicians  will  find  an  elaborate  discussion  of  this  topic 
in  the  Cent.  Die,  article.  Mode  (7).  soul  (138);   is  this  sub- 

ject or  object.'  The  syntax  of  lines  1 38- 142  needs  careful  study. 
Explain  the  paradoxical  epithets  in  line   141.  Orpheus,  Pluto, 


IL    PENSEROSO. 


Eurydice;  this  beautiful  storv,  beautifully  told,  will  be  found  in 
CI.  Myths,  §  107;   it  is  too  long  to  be  quoted  here.  Elysian; 

Elysium  was  the  bright  land  to  which  the  souls  of  the  just  departed 
after  death  —  in  the  case  of  favored  heroes,  without  death.  Here 
they  lived  happy,  each  following  what  had  been  his  favorite  occu- 
pation on  earth.  CI.  Myths,  pages  81-82.  The  Parisians  retain 
the  word  as  a  place-name  in  Champs-Elysees,  the  beautifully  wooded 
avenue  that  stretches  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe. 

A  poet  of  the  first  rank  seldom  employs  an  adjective  without  a  good  reason ; 
uneducated  people  employ  adjectives  constantly  and  with  very  little  reason. 
You  will  find  it  interesting  to  look  back  over  this  poem  and  study  Milton's  use 
of  adjectives,  determining  in  each  case  the  propriety  of  the  use. 


IL  PENSEROSO.       [PENSIEROSO]. 

The  opening  of  the  Penseroso  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  Beaumont's 
(?)  song  beginning 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spent  your  folly! 

This  song  was  first  printed  in  Fletcher's  play  of  The  Nice  Valour  (1647)  but 
was  quite  possibly  in  circulation  long  before.  The  Allegro  and  the  Penseroso 
themselves  were  not  printed  till  some  eight  or  ten  years  after  they  were  written. 

i-io.  bested  =  assist,  help.  What  is  the  force  of  the  prefix  here.-* 
What    is    the    force    in    behead?  fond  =  foolish ;    the    regular 

meaning  in  Old  English  and  still  retained  in  poetry;  very  common 
in  Chaucer  and  in  Shakespeare.  "I  do  wonder,  thou  naughty 
gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond,  To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  re- 
quest." Merch.  of  Ven.  iii.  3.  pensioners  =  dependents,  atten- 
dants. In  rude  and  early  times  money  was  weighed  out  {pciidere)  ; 
the  person  receiving  the  money  was  -pcnsionarius.  Morpheus, 
god  of  dreams  and  son  of  Sleep.  His  name  signifies  the  Moulder 
or  Fashioner  (of  dreams). 

11-21.     To   hit  =  to    suit,   to   fit.  Prince    Memnon's    Sister; 

another  example  of  Milton's  independent  mythologizing.  The 
meaning  is  perfectly  clear  :  beautiful  as  must  be  the  Sister  of  Mem- 
non  "  the  proud  son  of  the  bright  Dawn  "  (Odys.  IV.  1S8),  an  Ethio- 
pian ally  of  the  Trojans.  queen;  for  the  story  of  Cassiopea, 
Andromeda  and  Perseus  see  CI.  Myths,  §  137;  also  Kingsley's 
Andromeda  (one  of  the  few  good  hexameter  poems  in  English). 

22-30.  Vesta  (Hestia),  goddess  of  the  Hearth.  CI.  Myths,  §  42. 
Saturn;  CI.  Myths,  §  56  (i).     A  divinity  of  the  Romans.     Confused 


10  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

by  them  with  the  Greek  Cronus.  For  the  story  of  his  dethronement 
by  his  son  Jove,  and  for  the  explanation  of  the  epithet  solitary,  see 
CI.  Myths,  §  1 8.  Melancholy  is  here  made  the  daughter  of  Fire- 
side Musings  (Vesta)  and  of  Solitude  (Saturn).  Compare  note  on 
L'Allegro,  17. 

31-44.  grain;  certain  insects  of  the  genus  Coccus  when  dried 
look  like  grains  ard  yield  a  red-colored  dye  ;  hence  grain  =  a  red  or 
purplish  dye.  stole;  probably  =  hood,  here,  as  lines  33-4  seem 

to  have  already  described  a  garment  similar  to  the  classic  stola. 
cypress ;  derived  not  from  Cyprus,  but  probably  from  the  Old  French 
crcspc,  Latin  crtspus,  curled.  lawn;  after  many  conjectures  as 

to  the  origin  of  this  word,  etymologists  seemed  to  have  settled 
upon  Skeats"  explanation  that  it  is  from  Laon,  a  town  some  So  miles 
northeast  of  Paris.     Compare  'Bayonet'  from  '  Bayonne.'  de- 

cent =  comely.  commercing;  notice  the  accent  as  shown  bv  the 

rhythm.  still.    What  two  meanings  are  possible  here ?  fix; 

a  form  of  the  Subjunctive,  a  Mood  almost  obsolete  in  English; 
found  today  only  in  a  few  expressions,  as  '  If  I  were  vou,'  '  If  he 
be  not  worthy.'     We  have  the  same  construction  in  lines  122,  173. 

45-60.  Muses;  nine  in  number:  for  their  names  and  attributes 
see   CI.  Myths,   §    43    (4).  the    fiery-wheeled   throne;    Milton 

himself  supplied  the  illustration  for  this  line  in  Par.  Lost,  VI.  749- 

759- 

Forth  rushed  with  whirlwind  sound 

The  chariot  of  Paternal  Deity, 

Flashing  thick  flames,  wheel  within  wheel ;  undrawn, 

Itself  instinct  with  spirit,  but  convoyed 

By  four  cherubic  Shapes.     Four  faces  each 

Had  wondrous;  as  with  stars,  their  bodies  all 

And  wings  were  set  with  eyes ;  with  eyes  the  wheels 

Of  beryl,  and  careering  fires  between ; 

Over  their  heads  a  crystal  firmament, 

Whereon  a  sapphire  throne,  inlaid  with  pure 

Amber  and  colours  of  the  showery  arch. 

In  what  consists  the  superiority  of  this  description  to  that  in  Eze- 
kiel  X..'  Philomela,  daughter  of  King  Pandion  of  Attica.     For 

crime  committed,  the  gods  changed  her  into  a  nightingale.  CI. 
Myths,  §  151.  Cynthia;  an  epithet  for  Diana  (Artemis)  from  her 
birthplace,  Mt.  Cynthus  in  the  island  of  Delos.     CI.  Myths,  §  39. 

61-73.  'The  song  of  the  nightingale  ceases  about  the  time  the 
grass  is  mown.'  Peacock,  quoted  in  Garnett's  Milton,  Chapter 
II.  wandering  moon;  there   is   poetry   in   the   etymologies   of 

the  words  tnoon  and  planet ',   look  for  it. 

74-84.     curfew,  from  couvrir  and  /cu.     'In  the  year  after  King 


IL    PENSEROSO.  11 


Henry's  death,  in  a  Synod  held  at  Caen  [1061]  by  the  Duke's  author- 
ity, and  attended  by  Bishops,  Abbots  and  Barons,  it  was  ordered 
that  a  bell  should  be  rung  every  evening,  at  hearing  of  which  prayei 
should  be  offered,  and  all  people  should  get  within  their  houses  anc? 
shut  their  doors.  This  odd  mixture  of  piety  and  police  seems  to  be 
the  origin  of  the  famous  and  misrepresented  curfew.  Whatevel 
was  its  object,  it  was  at  least  not  ordained  as  any  special  hardship 
on  William's  English  subjects.'  Freeman's  Norman  Conquest,  III 
185.  bellman;  when  clocks  were  luxuries,  it  was  customary  tr 

employ  a  bellman  to  call  the  hours  of  the  night  and  the  state  of  th£ 
weather.  Our  ancestors  seem  to  have  been  deficient  in  humoi 
though,  for  when  they  metamorphosed  the  bellman  into  a  night- 
watchman,  they  forgot  to  take  away  his  bell.  The  cricket  on  the 
hearth.  Dickens  and  Joseph  Jefferson  have  immortalized  this 
phrase. 

85-96.  the  Bear  =  the  constellation  Ursa  Major  or  the  Great 
Bear,  commonly  known  in  the  United  States  as  the  Dipper :  in  the 
English  poets  often  referred  to  as  Charles'  Wain,  or  the  Churl's 
(Peasant's)  Wagon.  See  i  Henry,  IV.  ii.  i.  '  Charles"  Wain  is  over 
the  new  chimney.'  You  can  easily  distinguish  the  Great  Bear  and 
the  Little  Bear  (containing  the  pole-star)  on  a  clear  night  . 
Hermes;  the  Greeks  identified  their  divinity  Hermes  with  the 
Egyptian  Thot,  the  inventor  of  Arts  and  Sciences.  Read  Long- 
fellow's poem  of  Hermes  Trismegistus  for  a  beautiful  version  of  this 
legend.     We  have  space  for  only  one  verse. 

Where  are  now  the  many  hundred 

Thousand  books  he  wrote  ? 
By  the  Thaumaturgists  plundered 

Lost  in  lands  remote; 
In  oblivion  sunk  forever 

As  when  o'er  the  land 
Blows  a  storm  wind,  in  the  river 

Sinks  the  scattered  sand. 

Plato;  in  the  Phaedo  of  Plato,  Socrates,  on  the  day  he  is  con- 
demned to  die,  tranquilly  discusses  with  his  friends  the  question  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul.  consent  =  agreement,  harmony, 

planet;  element.  A  belief  in  astrology  lasted  beyond  the  age  of 
Milton  and  is  not  dead  today ;  witness  the  amusing  character  of 
Foresight  the  astrologer  in  Congreve's  comedy  of  Love  for  Love 
(1695)  and  the  continued  publication  of  Ayer's  Almanac. 

97-102.  sceptered,  may  be  taken  in  the  sense  of  'regal'  as  in 
Rich.  II.  ii.  I.  40,  'This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle;  ' 
or  sceptered  pall  may  =  '  with  sceptre  and  with  pall.'     The  express- 


12  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

ing  of  one  thing  by  two  —  which  would  be  the  reverse  of  the  con- 
struction here  —  is  common  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets  and  has 
a  specific  name,  Hendiadys  (One-Through-Two).  Thebes;  CI. 

Myths,  Chap.  XXII.  Pelops ;  CI.  Myths,  §  no;  also  Table  F 

on  page  444.  You  must  follow  up  the  references  given  in  that 
table  to  understand  the  various  misfortunes  of  the  house  of 
Pelops.  Troy;  CI.  Myths,  Chapters  XXIV.-XXVI.    ^schylus, 

Sophocles  and  Euripides  based  many  of  their  tragedies  on  the  three 
cycles  of  stories  here  referred  to.  Troy  is  called  '  divine '  because 
its  walls  were  built  by  Neptune.  buskined;  the  actor  in  tragedy 

wore  a  high-heeled  boot  (^cothurnus)  to  make  his  stature  appear  of 
heroic  size.     See  note  on  L'Allegro,  126-134. 

103-108.     Musaeus;  CI.  Myths,  §  11.  (2).  Orpheus;  see  note 

on  L'Allegro,  135-152. 

109-115.  A  reference  to  Chaucer's  (unfinished)  Squire's  Tale. 
In  Cambuscan  Milton  does  not  follow  Chaucer's  accentuation, 
which  is  invariably  Cambyskan. 

1 16-120.  An  exact  description  of  Spenser's  allegory  of  The 
Faerie  Qiieene ;  perhaps  Milton  was  thinking  also  of  Tasso's  Jeru- 
salem Delivered,  (1575). 

121-130.     Attic  boy  =  Cephalus ;    CI.    Myths,    §    112.  his  = 

modern  English  'its.'  In  Milton's  youth  'its'  was  hardly  estab- 
lished in  the  language,  being  recorded  in  print  for  the  first  time  in 
1598.  He  uses  it  only  three  times  in  his  poetry  (Hymn  on  the 
Nativity,  106;  Par.  Lost,  I.  254  and  IV.  814) ;  Shakespeare  but  ten 
times.  In  Old  English  the  personal  pronouns  were  highly  inflected  ; 
in  the  3rd  person  the  Nominative  and  Possessive  cases  were 

Masculine.  Feminine.  Neuter. 

Norn.         h6  hed  hit 

Poss.  his  hire  his 

The  confusion  arising  from  '  his '  having  to  serve  for  both  Masc. 
and  Neuter  led  to  the  gradual  substitution  of  '  its,'  formed  from  the 
Nom.  Neuter  by  dropping  the  aspirate  and  adding  '  s.'  minute ; 

the  rhythm  (to  say  nothing  of  the  sense)  will  show  you  whether  this 
is  tninuie  or  minute. 

131-146.     Sylvan;    CI.      Myths,     §    56,     (8).  Monumental; 

"...  suggesting  to  the  imagination  the  historic  oak  of  park 
or  chase,  up  to  the  knees  in  fern,  which  has  outlasted  ten  gen- 
erations of  men ;  has  been  the  mute  witness  of  the  scenes  of  love, 
treachery  or  violence  enacted  in  the  baronial  hall  which  it  shad- 
ows and  protects ;  and  has  been  so  associated  with  man  that  it  is 
now  rather  a  column  and  inemorial  obelisk  than  ;i  tree  of  the  forest." 
Pattison's  Milton,  Chapter  II.  profane  =^  too  profane.     This  use 


LYC/VAi>.  13 

of  the  comparative  is  a  Latinism  ;  see  Allen  and  Greenough's  Latin 
Grammar,    §   93.    a.  sing.     In   what   sense   is   the   bee  said   to 

'sing'?  sleep;  CI.   Mvths,  §  51.  (4),  and  §   113  (The  Cave  of 

Sleep).  In  ancient  works  of  art  the  god  Somnus  is  represented  with 
wings.  dewy-feathered.     Vergil    tells  us  that  the  god   Sleep, 

unable  to  lure  from  the  helm  the  trusty  pilot  Palinurus,  shook 
above  his  head  '  a  branch  dripping  with  Lethaean  dew.'     (^Eneid  V. 

854)- 

147-150.     Could  we  read  zvifk  for  at,  we  should  get  a  tolerable 

meaning  out  of  these  lines;  could  we  omit  ai,  we  should  get  a  bet- 
ter meaning;  as  "they  stand,  his  wings  must  refer  to  the  wings  of 
Sleep,  and  at  must  be  taken  in  the  sense  of  '  near.' 

151-166.     good  =  kind,  as  in  'Give  me  a  good  word.'  Gen- 

ius of  the  wood.  In  Milton's  Arcades,  the  principal  character  is 
'The  Genius  of   the  Wood.'  pale;  the  adjective   is  from   the 

Latin  pallt'dus,  pallid;  pale,  the  noun,  is  from  the  Latin  pains,  a 
stake.    Which  is  this.?  Massy-proof  =  massively  proof  (against 

the  thrust  of  the  roof)  ;  compare  '  water-proof,'  '  fire-proof.'  ec- 

stacies;  from  the  Greek  (if (orowi;)  f>(',  'out,'  and  //I'siaiiat,  'place, 
set ; '  a  state  in  which  the  spirit  is  placed  outside  of  or  exalted  from 
the  body. 

167-176.     spell  of  =  to  discover  by  careful  study. 

Read  again  the  Introduction  (p.  4)  to  L'AUegro  and  II  Penseroso  and  try 
to  follow  out  the  advice  there  given  you.  In  the  whole  range  of  English  Litera- 
ture you  will  hardly  find  a  diction  more  felicitous  or  a  harmony  more  exquisite 
than  Milton  displays  in  these  poems.  You  will  appreciate  the  full  force  of  this 
only  when  you  have  accustomed  yourself  to  reading  the  poems  aloud  and  when 
you  have  commiUed  to  memory  such  passages  as  your  teacher  may  select  for 
you. 

LYCIDAS. 

Introduction. —  Edward  King,  the  fellow-collegian  whom  Milton  bewails 
in  this  Elegy,  is  perhaps  the  most  obscure  mortal  ever  immortalized  by  a  great 
poet.  None  of  his  English  poems  are  extant ;  the  quality  of  his  Latin  verses 
easily  reconciles  us  to  the  loss.  Though  of  slender  abilities,  he  must  have  been 
of  pure  and  kindly  nature  to  have  inspired  with  affection  such  a  man  as  Milton. 
The  back-ground  of  this  poem  is  evidently  intended  to  be  classic-pastoral ;  but 
it  must  be  confessed  that  the  figure  of  St.  Peter  {109)  appears  somewhat  out  of 
place  in  such  scenery,  nor  can  the  mixture  of  Keltic,  Christian  and  Hellenic 
imagery  (160-164)  be  e.xtolled  as  an  example  of  poetic  taste.  It  must  be  re- 
membered, though,  that  what  would  be  critically  condemned  in  this  nineteenth 
century  of  accurate  scholarship  and  nice  discrimination  would  pass  almost  un- 
noticed in  a  simpler  and  less  fastidious  age,  —  an  age  when  Shakespeare's 
Romans  wore  doublets  and  when  part  of  the  audience   sat  upon  the  stage. 


14  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

Moreover,  what  is  lost  in  poetic  effect  by  the  introduction  of  lines  108-131  is 
pailly  compensated  for  by  the  interesting  light  they  throw  upon  Milton's  atti- 
tude toward  the  burning  political  and  theological  questions  of  the  day. 

1-14.  The  laurel  of  Apollo,  the  myrtle  of  Venus  and  the  ivy  of 
Bacchus  appear  to  symbolize  poetry.  The  meaning  of  these  lines, 
then,  must  be  that  the  writer  feels  himself  not  yet  prepared  to 
imdertake  another  poem  and  gives  us  these  verses  only  under  the 
sad  compulsion  of  his  friend's  death.  If  this  interpretation  be  cor- 
rect, '  the  mellowing  year '  is  the  time  of  poetic  ripeness.  dear  = 
grievous.  Compare  Hamlet's  '  Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe 
in  Heaven.'  '  Restive'  is  another  word  that  has  two  exactly  oppo- 
site meanings.  Shatter  is  another  form  of  '  scatter.'  rime ; 
commonly  misspelled  'rhyme'  through  a  mistaken  identification 
with  '  rhythm'  (Gk.  pvHuo^).  '  Rime'  is  from  the  Old  English  rim, 
'  number.' 

15-22.  Sisters  of  the  Sacred  Well;  imitated  from  the  opening  of 
Hesiod's  Theogony  :  "  With  the  Muses  of  Helicon  let  us  begin  to  sing, 
who  haunt  the  divine  and  spacious  mount  of  Helicon,  who  with  deli- 
cate feet  dance  around  the  violet-colored  fountain  and  altar  of  the 
mighty  son  of  Cronus."  Aganippe  and  Hippocrene,  the  fountains 
of  the  Muses,  are  on  Mount  Helicon   in   Boeotia.  Muse  must 

mean  '  poet ; '  hardly  an  elegant  use  of  the  word,  though  foimd  in 
Shakespeare  (Sonnet  XXI.  i.)  and  in  Spenser  (Prothalamion,  159)- 
lucky  words;  i.e.  with  words  of  good  omen,  such  as  the  Si'i  Tihl 
Terra  Levis  (May  the  Earth  Lie  Lightly  O'er  Thee !)  of  the  mourner 
as  he  thrice  casts  earth  on  the  body  of  his  friend.  urn ;  cre- 

mation was  customary  among  the  Romans  of  the  later  Republic  and 
of  the  Empire;  the  ashes  were  preserved  in  an  urn.  In  earlier  days, 
interment  was  the  regular  means  of  disposing  of  the  body.  See 
Rich,  articles  '  Humatio,'  '  Sepulchrimi,'  'Urna'  (2). 

23-31.      lawns;    see   note  on    L'AIlegro,   6S-S0.  afield;    see 

note    on    L'AIlegro,    17-24.  gray-fly;    the    trumpet-fly    which 

buzzes  around  busily  in   the   hot  part  of  the  day.  battening; 

here  transitive;  more  commonly  intransitive,  as  in  Hamlet  iii.  4, 

Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed 
And  batten  on  this  moor  ? 

'jright,  is  better  connected  (adverbially)  \\\\\\  'had  sloped'  than 
with  '  evening.'  Nothing  more  beautiful  than  these  nine  lines 
(23-31)  is  to  be  foimd  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  pastoral  poets. 
Had  Milton  only  given  us  more  verses  like  these,  we  could 
cheerfully  have  spared  some  of  the  harsh  Pui'itan  invective,  lines 
113-131- 


LYCIDAS.  15 

32-36.  oaten;  in  primitive  times,  simple  musical  instruments 
were  made  from  reeds.  Satyrs;  (Greek)  half-man,  half-goat. 

They  were  the  traditional  attendants  of  Bacchus,  at  whose  orgies 
thej  danced  and  plaved.     CI.  Myths,  §  47  (3),  102,  117.  Fauns; 

(Latin),  rustic  divinities,  of  gentler  nature  than  the  Satyrs,  but  often 
confused  with  them.  CI.  Myths,  §  56  (7).  See  also  Hawthorne's 
psychical    romance.   The  Marble    Faun.  DamcEtas;    possibly 

Chappell,  Tutor  at  Christ's  College  when  Milton  studied  there. 
The  name  Damcetas  occurs  in  the  Sixth  Idyll  of  Theocritus. 

37-49.     wardrobe,  by  metonymy  =  apparel.  When  first,  efc. ; 

this  seems  to  be  a  reminiscence  of  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  i.  i, 

183-5- 

.     .     .     your  tongue's  sweet  air 

More  tunable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear 

When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 

50-63.  the  steep;  this  description  would  answer  to  many  moun- 
tains in  Wales.  Druids ;  by  a  false  etymology  this  word  was  long- 
derived  from  the  Greek  ((5p!)i)  driis,  an  oak,  because  the  Druids  ^\or- 
shipped  in  oak-groves.  The  word  is  really  from  the  Old  Keltic  driii, 
meaning  '  magician.'  Mona  =  Anglesey,  once  a  famous  strong- 

hold of  the  Druids.  Deva  =  the  Dee,  once  a  part  of  the  boundary 
line  between  England  and  Wales.  There  are  many  Keltic  legends 
connected  with  it,  hence  the  epithet  '  wizard.'  fondly  =  fool- 

ishly, the  muse  =  Calliope.     For  the  death  of  Orpheus,   see 

CI.  Myths,  pages  1S7-8.  Orpheus  seems  to  be  a  favorite  subject  with 
Milton  ;  this  is  the  third  reference  we  have  had  to  him.  Where  are 
the  other  two?     In  Par.  Lost,  VII.  34-38,  we  have  a  fourth  : 

—  that  wild  rout  that  tore  the  Thracian  bard 
In  Rhodope,  where  woods  and  rocks  had  ears, 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamour  drowned 
Both  harp  and  voice ;  nor  could  the  Muse  defend 
Her  son. 

swift  Hebrus;  the  Hebrus  is  not  swift,  but  slow;  Milton's  phrase  is  a 
literal  translation  of  Vergil's  '  volucrem  Hebrum  '  (^Eneid  I.  316). 
See  note  on  that  line  in  Allen  &  Greenough's  Vergil. 

64-84.  A  digression  upon  Fame :  an  answer  to  the  Cui  Bono 
that  comes  to  every  earnest  man  at  some  time  in  his  career.  You 
will  notice  that  the  classical  imagery  is  admirably  sustained 
throughout  this  passage,  though  there  must  have  been  a  great  temp- 
tation to  break  off  into  a  Hebraistic  strain  such  as  characterizes 
lines   108-131.  What  boots    it?  =  What  profits  it.''      Boots   is 

from  the  Old  English  bot,  '  advantage.'  It  has  no  etymological  con- 
nection with  boot  in   the  sense  of    foot-wear,  which   is   from   the 


16  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

French  hottc.  meditate  the  thankless  Muse;  a  transcript  from 

Vergil,  Eclogue  I.  2:  '■  Silz'esfro.111  tciiui  Miisam  mcditaris  avcua  :'' 
Thou  dost  practise  rustic  verse  on  the  thin  i-eed.  use  =  are  accus- 
tomed. The  preterite  ot  'use'  I'etains  this  meaning.  Ama- 
ryllis; Neaera;  names  of  girls  in  Vergil's  Eclogues.  The  names 
occur  again  in  an  elegy  of  George  Buchanan's  with  which  this 
passage  shows  Milton  to  have  been  familiar.  Lovelace  has  closely 
followed  the  phraseology  of  line  69  in  the  first  verse  of  his  beautiful 
song,  'To  Althea  from  Prison.'  (Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury', 
Song  99). 

When  Love  witli  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

clear  =  pure,  irreproacliable,  as  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  ii.  9, 

40-2. 

'  O  that  estates,  degrees  and  offices 
Were  not  derived  corruptly;  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer.' 

blaze  =  the  light  of  fame.  Par.  Regained,  III.  25-4S,  forms  an  inter- 
esting comment  on  this  passage.  Fury;  the  Furies  (Erinyes  or 
Eumenides)  were  Alecto  (The  Implacable),  Tisiphone  (The  Aven- 
ger of  Murder)  and  Megaera  (The  Envying  One).  They  personified 
Remorse;  CI.  Myths,  §51  (2).  In  the  Hellenic  Mythology,  it  is 
not  one  of  the  Furies  but  one  of  the  Fates  (Atropos,  The  Inflexible), 
that  cuts  the  thread  of  life.  The  other  Fates  were  Clotho  (The 
Spinner)  and  Lachesis  (The  Allotter)  :  CI.  Myths,  §  43,  (6)  ;  also 
pp.  279-80.  Phoebus,  or  Phcebus  Apollo,  the  god  of  Poetry 
and  Music,  CI.  Myths,  §  38.  Lines  76-7  are  imitated  from  Vergil, 
Eclogue  VI.  3-4 ;  '  When  I  would  sing  of  kings  and  wars,  Cynthius 
plucked  my  ear  and  admonished  me — .'  The  seat  of  memory  was 
supposed  to  be  in  the  ear.  foil  (Latin  folium,  whence  '  foliage  ')  ; 
in  jewelry,  a  thin  sheet  of  metal  often  put  under  a  poor  stone  to  add 
luster  by  reflection.  '  So  diamonds  owe  a  luster  to  their  foil.' 
(Pope.)  With  this  meaning  for  'foil'  the  intei-pi^etation  will  be: 
Fame  is  not  like  a  cheap  jewel  displayed  to  the  world  with  mere- 
triciously Jicightened   etfect,   Inil — . 

85-102.  fountain  Arethuse;  in  the  little  island  of  Ortvgia  lying 
in  the  harI)or  of  Syracuse.  For  the  story  of  Aiethusa  and  Alpheus 
see  CI.  Myths,  §  88,  and  Shelley's  Arethusa,  there  quoted.  Min- 


LYCTDAS.  17 

cius,  a  little  river  in  Northern  Italy,  near  Mantua,  the  birthplace  of 
Vergil.  It  is  often  mentioned  in  his  writings.  In  what  consists 
the  appropriateness  of  these  Sicilian  and  Italian  allusions?  Her- 

ald of  the  sea  =  Triton,  CI.  Myths,  §  54  (i)  ;  also  the  sonnet  from 
Wordsworth  quoted  on  p.  87  of  that  book.  in  Neptune's  plea  =  in 
defense  of  Neptune.  of  rugged  wings,  seems  best  taken  as  an 

adjective  phrase  with  gust.  beaked  promontory;  this  metaphor 

shows  a  reversal  of  the  usual  process.     What  is  that.^  Hippo- 

tades.  See  the  opening  of  Odyssey  X.  :  "  Soon  we  drew  near  the 
island  of  ^Eolia,  where  ^Eolus,  the  son  of  Hippotas,  dear  to  immor- 
tal gods,  dwelt  on  a  floating  island.  All  around  it  is  a  wall  of 
bronze,  not  to  be  broken  through,  and  smooth  and  steep  rises  the 
rocky  shore."  The  suffixes  —  adcs,  — ides  (Masculine)  and  —  as^  — 
/.S-,  — CIS  (Feminine)  when  added  to  proper  names  form  Pationymics, 
indicating  descent  or  relationship;  thus  (as  above)  Hippot-ades, 
son  of  Hippotas;  Tyndar-is,  daughter  of  Tyndarus.  See  A.  &  G. 
Latin  Grammar,  §  164  (b).  dungeon;  there  is  a  fine  descrip- 

tion of  the  cave  of  the  winds  in  the  .Eneid,  I.  50-63.  Panope 

(The  All-Seeing  One)  and  her  forty-nine  sisters  were  sea-nymphs, 
daughters  of   Nereus  and   Doris.  eclipse ;    eclipses  were    long 

believed  to  be  signs  of  divine  displeasure.  Compare  the  still-com- 
mon superstition  about  the  moon's  phases  affecting  the  weather. 

103-7.     Camus;  the   divinity  of  the   sluggish   Cam.  mantle 

hairy,  etc.  River-sponge  and  sedge  grow  luxuriantly  in  the  Cam 
toda}'.  The  '  figures  dim '  may  refer  to  curious  streaks  that  show  on 
the  sedge  when  dried.  Sanguine  flower;    the   hyacinth.     For 

the  legend,  see  CI.  Myths,  §  74.  pledge  (like  the  Latin  pig- 

jius')  ■=  offspring. 

108-131.  Consult  your  English  History  for  the  memorable 
events  of  this  exciting  year,  1637.  Pilot;  See  Matthew  IV.  18-19. 

Keys;  Matthew  XVI.  19.  amain  =  with  force.    The  prefix  here 

is  merely  intensive  (as  in  a-wake,  a-rouse)  and  signified  originally 
'out  of,'    'up.'  climb    into   the   fold;    compare  the    sonnet    to 

Cromwell,  p.  16.  mouths;  a  strong  metonymy  for  '  gluttons.' 

Ruskin  has  an  elaborate  comment  on  this  passage  in  Sesame  and 
Lilies,  Lecture  I.  Milton's  phraseology  throughout  is  forcible,  if 
not   elegant.  sped.      Two    interpretations    are    possible.      1°, 

Mercutio  when  wounded  exclaims,  '  I  am  sped,'  where  the  meaning 
is  evidently  'despatched,'  'done  for.'  (Romeo  and  Juliet,  iii.  i.). 
2",  sped  may  have  its  original    meaning  of  '  prospered.'  list, 

originally  like  '  please '  an  impersonal  verb  used  with  a  dative  ob- 
ject ;  very  common  in  Chaucer.  flashy  =  insipid  :  obsolete  in 
this  sense.              scrannel  =  scrawny,  thin.     This  word  is  found  in 


18  A'OTES    TO    MILTON. 

no  other  classic  author,  and  nowhere  in  Milton  save  here.  Like 
many  other  old  words,  it  has  survived  in  a  dialect  (Lancashire 
'  scrannel '  =  a  lean  fellow)  while  it  has  disappeared  from  polite 
speech.  The  grim  wolf,  has  never  been  satisfactorily  explained. 

The  following  conjectures  worthy  of  notice  have  been  put  forward. 
1°,  Archbishop  Laud;  2°,  the  Devil ;  3°,  the  'grievous  wolves'  of 
Acts  XX.  29  ;  4°,  Conversion  to  Roman  Catholicism,  common  at  this 
time.  Nothing  said.     The  interpretation  of  this  depends  upon 

wliich  of  the  four  conjectures  just  mentioned  you  adopt.  two- 

handed  engine.  This  is  as  great  a  crux  as  the  '  grim  wolf.'  Sug- 
gested interpretations  are,  1°,  The  two  Houses  of  Parliament;  2°, 
Death  ;  3°,  The  sword  of  the  Archangel  Michael ;  4°,  The  sharp  two- 
edged  sword  of  Revelation,  L  16;  5°,  'The  axe  .  .  .  laid  unto 
the  root  of  the  trees,'  in  Luke  IIL  9;  6°,  'The  sword  of  the  spirit,' 
in  Ephesians  VI.  17.  Read  this  passage  (108-13 1)  again.  Do  j^ou 
think  the  poem  would  be  improved  by  removing  it.''  Does  the  fact 
that  King  was  a  clergyman  justify  the  introduction  of  St.  Peter  as  " 
representing  the  Christian  Church .' 

132-141.    Alpheus.     See  notes  on  85-102.  use  =  are  accustomed 

(to  dwell)  =  haunt.  Compare  line  67.  of  shades,  depends  upon 
'whispers.'  Swart- star  =  Sirius.  In  Greece  and  southern  Italy  its 
rising  coincides  with  the  time  of  greatest  heat,  and  was  popularly 
supposed  to  be  the  cause  thereof,  hence  swart-star  =  the  star  that 
browns  or  tans.  It  shines  with  a  bright,  white  light,  and  is  easily 
found  by  prolonging  to  the  left  the  line  of  Orion's  belt.  Why  is  it 
sometimes  called  the  Dog-Star?  Has  this  epithet  any  real  connec- 
tion with  'dog  days'.''  quaint;  not  'curious,'  but  probably 
merely  =  '  pretty,'  as  in  Margaret's  description  of  Hero's  wedding- 
gown  as  of  '  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful  fashion '  (Much  Ado,  iii.  4.  20). 

142-151.  Ruskin  has  an  elaborate  and  somewhat  far-fetched  criti- 
cism on  this  passage  in  Modern  Painters,  Part  III.  Sec.  II.  Chap. 
III.  It  may  suffice  for  your  purpose  if  you  acquire  a  clear  conception 
of  the  nature  and  appearance  of  each  flower  mentioned.  Some  of 
them  you  can  see  in  conservatories  or  in  gardens ;  for  others  you 
must  trust  to  the  descriptions  in  your  Botany.  A  little  reflection  will 
show  you  that  in  nearly  every  case  there  is  appropriateness  in  the 
introduction  of  the  flower  in  this  connection.  Read  for  comparison 
the  passage  in  the  Winter's  Tale  (iv.  3)  beginning 

O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall  — . 

hearse ;  not  a  '  carriage '  but  a  '  bier.'  Another  and  an  older 
meaning  is  a  canopy  (set  over  the  bier)  to  hold  candles. 


LYCIDAS.  19 

152-164.     monstrous  world. 

Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks ; 
A  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnawed  upon; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Rich.  111.  i.  4.  24-8. 

Bellerus;  a  Cornish  giant  of  Milton's  invention.  He  coined  the 
word  from  Bolerium,  the  Roman  name  for  Land's  End.  vision. 

On  St.  Michael's  Mount,  near  Penzance,  there  was  formerly  a  monas- 
tery of  Benedictine  monks.  They  had  a  tradition  that  the  Archan- 
gel Micliael  had  once  appeared  here  to  some  of  their  order;  on  the 
spot  where  he  was  seen  they  erected  a  stone  lantern.  guarded, 

may  refer  to  the  ruins  of  a  fortress  that  once  occupied  the  Mount  or 
to  the  guaitl  kept  by  the  angel.  Namancos;  Bayona;  given 

in  Mercator's  Atlases  (1623  and  1636)  as  towns  near  Cape  Finisterre 
in  Galicia.  There  was  an  old  tradition  that  Finisterre  could  be 
seen  frotu  Land's  End.  dolphins;  consult  the   Classical  Dic- 

tionary, article  Arion  ;   see  also  Geoi-ge  Eliot's  poem,  Arion. 
165-171.     watery  floor; 

Look  how  the  floor  of  Heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold. 

Merch.  of  Venice,  v.  i.  57-8. 

the  day-star  =  the  sun.  tricks;  compare  II  Penseroso,  123.     The 

simile  in  lines  168-171  has  been  used  by  innumerable  poets;  it  must 
be  confessed  also  that  Milton's  treatment,  though  very  beautiful,  is 
somewhat  conventional.  Notice  Browning's  more  original  and 
striking  application  of  the  same  figure,  at  the  close  of  his  Waring. 

Oh,  never  star 
Was  lost  here  but  it  rose  afar  1 
Look  east,  where  whole  new  thousands  are! 
In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar  ? 

172-181.  The  imagery  of  this  passage  is  drawn  chiefly  from  the 
description  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  Revelation  XXI.  and  XXII.  Is 
such  imagery  appropriately  introduced  in  a  poem  of  this  kind.'' 
nectar.  This  is  certainly  an  inappropriate  word  in  this  passage,  asso- 
ciated as  it  is  with  suggestions  of  Olympian  revelry.  unexpres- 
sive  =  inexpressible,  that  is,  too  sweet  for  expression.  Orlando 
describes  his  mistress  as  '  The  fair,  the  chaste,  the  unexpressive 
she.'     (As  You  Like  It,  iii.  2.  10). 

182-185.  Genius  of  the  shore;  compaie  11  Penseroso,  154.  See 
also  the  story  of  Leucothea  and  Pala;mon,  CI.  Myths,  §  129. 


20  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

186-191.  These  eight  lines  are  in  o/faz-a  ri'iiia,  a  favorite  form  of 
versification  with  Byron.  uncouth  swain  =  the  poet  himself, — 

a  depreciatory  touch.  Perhaps  also  in  various  and  eager  we  have  a 
half-apology  for  the  mixture  of  styles  in  this  poem.  Doric  lay; 

Theocritus  wrote  in  the  Doric  dialect.  See  note  on  '  Lydian  airs,' 
L'Allegro,  135-152.  blue;   the  conventional  color  for  a  shep- 

herd's dress.  The  last  line  is  interpreted  by  some  to  mean  that 
Milton  intended  to  write  no  more  occasional  \erse  but  to  return  to 
his  serious  studies.  Others  see  in  it  a  reference  to  his  approaching 
journey  to  Italy. 

Perhaps  you  have  found  this  a  difficult  poem.  Has  it  convinced  you  that  he 
who  would  become  a  thorough  scholar  in  the  department  of  English  Litera- 
ture, must  base  his  studies  upon  a  broad  foundation  of  Greek  and  Latin  Lit- 
erature ?     Would  a  knowledge  of  Old  English  serve  your  purpose  as  well  ? 

ON    SHAKESPEARE. 

This  little  poem  with  commendatory  verses  by  other  hands,  was  prefixed  to 
the  1632  folio  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  there  called  'An  Epitaph  on  the  Admir- 
able Dramatick  Poet,  VV.  Shakespeare.'  It  is  certainly  an  astonishing  perform- 
ance for  a  young  man  of  twenty-two  and  contains  at  least  one  immortal  line. 
Which  is  that  ? 

1-6.  What;  for  this  use  of  -u.'//af  compare. Tennyson's  Passing  of 
Arthur,  41S  and  420  (p.  301  of  this  book)  : 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats     .     .    . 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer? 

star-ypointing;  see  notes  on  L'Allegro,  11-16. 

7-16.     unvalued  =  not  to  be  valued,  inestimable.  Delphic  = 

inspired.  At  Delphi,  in  Pnocis,  w-as  a  famous  oracle  of  Apollo.  CI. 
Myths,  p.  420.  In  lines  13-14,  the  metaphor  is  so  far-fetched  that  it 
may  fairly  be  called  a  conceit.  The  mterpretation  seems  to  be  that 
Shakespeare,  by  the  power  and  beauty  of  his  thought  (^conceiving) 
exalts  us  to  a  state  of  wrapt  and  silent  attention  wherein  the  crea- 
tions of  the  imagination  infancy')  become  realities  to  us.  Such  con- 
ceits were  popular  when  Milton  wrote  these  lines;  they  abound  in 
the  works  of  Donne  (d.  163 1)  who  was  actually  considered  a  great 
poet  in  his  day. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  SONNETS. 

The  Sonnet  is  an  Italian  form  of  versification  that  appeared  for  the  first  time 
in  England  in  Tottel's  Miscellany,  1557.  The  poems  there  called  Sonnets  are 
extremely  crude  in  construction ;  the  so-called  '  Sonnets  '  of  Shakespeare  are 


TO    THE    LORD    GENERAL    CROMWELL.  21 

strictly  speaking  not  Sonnets  at  all ;  Milton  is  the  first  English  writer  in  whom 
the  form  of  the  Sonnet  approaches  the  typeset  by  the  best  Italian  writers.  The 
following  are  the  principal  Rules  of  the  Sonnet  deduced  from  their  usage. 

1°,  The  Sonnet  must  contain  fourteen  lines  of  five  accents  each. 

2",  Lines  i-8  must  form  two  quatrains  with  only  two  rimes,  arranged  accord- 
ing to  the  following  scheme :  a,  b,  b,  a,  a,  b,  b,  a. 

30,  Lines  9-14  must  contain  two  tercets  with  either  two  rimes  or  three.  The 
tercets  must  not  reproduce  the  rimes  of  the  quatrains. 

40,  The  last  two  lines  must  not  rime.  (This  rule  is  not  strictly  observed  by 
Milton  or  by  Wordsworth). 

These  rules,  in  spite  of  their  appearance  of  artificiality,  are  really  grounded 
upon  common  sense.  The  following  brief  suggestions  may  start  you  along  a 
line  of  thought  that  you  can  profitably  follow  up  for  yourself. 

lo,  "  The  limit  of  the  Sonnet  is  imposed  by  the  average  duration  of  an  emo- 
tional mood."      (Pattison). 

2°  &  30,  The  division  into  quatrains  and  tercets  is  based  upon  the  law  of 
effect  by  contrast. 

40,  The  Sonnet  as  a  whole  being  intended  to  express  one  thought  or  feeling 
must  adopt  a  metrical  form  that  will  carry  the  thought  smoothly  and  continu- 
ously to  the  end.  If  the  two  last  lines  rime,  they  seem  to  stand  out  separated 
from  the  body  of  the  poem.  Notice  this  in  the  Sonnet  to  Cromwell,  (p.  16) ; 
how  inferior  is  the  effect  of  this  ending  to  that  in  Keats'  Sonnet  on  Homer 
(p.  171)  or  to  that  in  Wordsworth's  Sonnet  to  Milton  (p.  210)  ! 

ON    HIS    HAVING    ARRIVED    AT    THE    AGE    OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

This  Sonnet  was  sent  to  a  friend  who  had  urged  Milton  to  lead  a  more  'prac- 
tical '  life  and  become  a  clergyman  at  once.  But  Milton  was  wiser  than  his 
friend.  He  felt  that  the  will  of  Heaven  had  destined  him  to  be  a  poet.  Through 
long  years  of  distracting  conflict  he  never  abandoned  this  purpose ;  the  result 
was  Paradise  Lost. 

sheweth.  This  is  not  a  faulty  rime,  since  this  word,  though  now 
commonly  spelled  and  pronounced  s/iotv,  in  Milton's  day  was  com- 
monly spelled  and  pronounced  as  here.  Both  forms  occur  in  his 
poems,  but  sliew  much  oftener  than  skozu.  The  etymology  (Mid,- 
dle  English  '  shewen ')  decides  that  skezv  is  the  older  fonn.  my 

semblance;  Milton  had  a  remarkably  beautiful  and  youthful  face. 
At  college  he  was  nick-named  '  The  Lady  of  Christ's.' 

TO  THE  LORD  GENERAL  CROMWELL. 

The  '  certain  ministers '  were  John  Owen  and  other  Independents  who  desired 
State-support  for  the  clergy.  The  'Committee  for  Propagation  of  the  Gospel' 
was  a  Committee  of  the  Rump  Parliament  who  had  charge  of  ecclesiastical  af- 
fairs. Milton's  lines  are  both  a  general  plea  for  religious  freedom  and  a 
special  appeal  to  Cromwell  to  '  Save  us  from  our  friends ! '  This  the  Lord 
General  did  very  effectively  ten  months  later  by  calling  in  his  troopers  to  expel 


22  NOTES    TO    MILTON. 

the  Rump.  The  members  departed  so  little  regretted,  he  declares,  that  not 
even  a  dog  barked  as  they  left  the  place. 

the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune.  A  biblical  metaphor ;  Genesis 
XLIX.  S.  trophies;    a  word   with   an    interesting    elvmology. 

What  do  vou  think  of  trophies   reared    on   a  Jieck  ?  Darwen 

stream;  near  Preston  in  Lancashire  where  Croinwell  defeated  tiie 
Scotch  under  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  August,    164S.  Dunbar; 

Worcester;  Cromwellian  victories,  Sept.  3,  1650,  and  Sept.  3,  165:. 
For  a  vivid  picture  of  Dunbar  fight  see  Carljle's  Cromwell,  Let- 
ters 139-146;  for  Worcester,  Letters  1S2-1S3.  new  foes;  Owen 
and  his  associates,  as  distinguished  from  the  old  foes,  Presbyterians, 
who  had  been  long  committed  to  the  policy  of  an  established  church. 

What  is  the  famous  line  in  this  Sonnet.'' 

ON    THE    LATE    MASSACRE    IN    PIEDMONT. 

In  1655  the  Duke  of  Savoy  had  attempted  by  force  to  convert  some  of  his 
Protestant  subjects  to  Catholicism.  As  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Commonwealth 
it  was  Milton's  duty  to  draft  the  letter  of  remonstrance  sent  to  the  Duke  on  this 
occasion  by  Cromwell.  In  that  document,  diplomatic  courtesy  restrained  him 
from  giving  vent  to  the  grievous  indignation  which,  in  this  Sonnet,  bursts  forth 
like  a  bright  and  consuming  fire.  The  leading  thought  in  this  Sonnet  is 

as  old  as  Tertullian,  the  imagery  is  trite,  the  diction  is  of  the  utmost  sim- 
plicity; yet  so  great  was  this  man's  soul  and  so  deep  the  passion  he  has  put 
into  these  few  lines,  that  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  centuries  and  a  half  he 
makes  us  feel  the  shock  of  strong  emotion  that  swept  over  him  when  he  heard 
of  the  cruel  deeds  of  the  "bloody  Piedmontese." 

Consult  your  English  History  for  the  parts  played  by  Cromwell  and  Mazarin 
in  this  affair. 

Alpine    mountains    cold.     This    phrase  is  from    Fairfax's  Tasso, 

XIII.  60. 

—  to  the  valleys  greene 
Distilled  from  tops  of  Alpine  mountains  cold. 

of  old.  The  form  of  Christianity  professed  by  the  Waldenses  ante- 
dated the  i6th  Century  Refonnation.  stocks  and  stones.  The 
Puritans  regarded  Roman  Catholicism  as  a  species  of  idolatry.  The 
incident  referred  to  in  lines  7-8  is  illustrated  by  a  cut  in  a  book  pub- 
lished in  165S  by  Sir  William  Moreland,  Cromwell's  Agent  at  Geneva. 
The  triple  tyrant,  meaning  the  Pope,  so  called  from  his  tiara  or  triple 
crown.  See  Brewer,  article  'Tiara.'  Babylonian  woe.  Roine 
was  looked  upon  by  the  Puritans  as  the  Babylon  of  Revelation 
XVII.  and  XVIII. 

ON    HIS    BLINDNESS. 
The  year  in  which  Milton  became  totally  blind  is  not  known  with  certainty. 
It  was  probably  about  1652,  since  in  that  year  he  was   allowed  an  Assistant 


TO    CYRIACK    SKINNER.  23 

Secretary.    As  he  explains  in  the  next  Sonnet,  loss  of  eyesight  was  hastened  by 
his  labor  upon  his  Defense  of  the  English  People  against  Salmasius. 

talent;  Matthew  XXV.  14-30.  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 
We  have  the  same  thought  in  Par.  Lost,  IV.  677-S. 

Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep. 

Compare  also  the  Te  Deum,  2-3. 

All  the  earth  doth  worship  thee.     ... 

To  thee  all  Angels  cry  aloud ;  the  Heavens  and  all  the  Powers  therein. 

post.     This  word  is  a  bit  of  fossil   history;   it  will  repa\-  _\ou  to  dig 
it  out.  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait;  a  beautiful 

expression  of  a  beautiful  thought  that  has  brought  consolation  to 
thousands  of  weary  souls. 

TO    CYRIACK    SKINNER. 

Skinner  had  been  a  pupil  of  Milton's  and  at  the  date  of  this  Son- 
net (probably  1655)  was  a  lawyer  of  some  prominence.  this 
three  years'  day.  We  have  a  similar  phrase  in  2  Henry  VI.  ii.  i  ; 
'these  seven  years'  day.'  rings;  the  Cambridge  MS.  reads 
'  talks '  which  is  so  much  feebler,  that  Pattison  is  almost  the  only 
editor  who  retains  it.  With  the  magnificent  courage  of  this  Sonnet 
compare  the  pathetic  resignation  of 

Thus  with  the  yeai 
Seasons  return ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 
But  cloud  instead  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and,  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair, 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

Par.  Lost,  III.  40-50. 

Of  the  six  short  poems  of  Milton  here  given,  you  will  do  well  to 
commit  to  memory  the  lines  On  Shakespeare,  On  His  Ha\ing 
Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-Three,  and  either  the  Sonnet  On  His 
Blindness  or  To  Cyriack  Skinner.  From  these,  you  cannot  fail  to 
learn  that  Nobility  of  Thought  goes  hand-in-hand  with  Simplicity 
of  Expression  and  that  the  highest  poetic  effects  are  based  upon 
Sincerity. 


24  NOTES    TO    DRYDEN. 


NTRODUCTION  TO  DRYDEN  AND  POPE. 


During  the  thirty-eight  years  which  elapsed  between  Milton's  Sonnet  to 
Skinner  and  Dryden's  Epistle  to  Congreve,  a  great  change  came  over  the  spirit 
of  English  literature.  Even  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  (1642)  it 
was  evident  that  the  Romantic  movement  had  almost  spent  its  force,  running 
off  into  such  absurdities  and  extravagancies  that  even  the  prosy  Waller  was 
welcomed  with  relief  as  the  herald  of  a  new  age.  During  the  time  of  Puritan 
ascendancy  (1649-1660),  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional  Sonnet  from 
Milton,  Literature,  suffering  in  silence,  hid  her  diminished  head.  When  she 
emerged  at  the  Restoration,  she  found  herself  in  a  new  world ;  a  world  of 
Realism  to  which  Idealism  was  dead,  a  world  on  whose  map  the  Forest 
of  Ardennes  is  undiscoverable,  but  on  which  the  Mall  and  the  Coffee  House 
are  printed  in  large  letters. 

It  has  been  seriously  maintained  that  the  poets  of  this  age  —  such  great 
literary  artists  as  Dryden  and  Pope  —  are  not  poets  at  all.  But  surely  they  dwell 
in  a  Poetry  Land  of  narrow  dimensions  who  cannot  find  room  in  it  for  the  author 
of  the  Absalom  and  Achitophel  and  of  the  Epistle  to  Augustus.  Was  ever 
dictum  more  absurd  than  the  following,  advanced  by  a  critic  of  some  repute ;  1 
'  Dryden  is  perhaps  the  only  great  writer —  he  is  certainly  the  only  English  poet 
of  high  rank  —  who  appears  to  be  wholly  destitute  of  the  gift  of  observation.' ( !) 
Observation  of  what?  Surely  there  is  power  of  observing  Human  Nature  in 
him  who  etched  Zimri,  in  lines  as  clear-cut  today  as  they  were  two  hundred 
years  ago.  And  is  not  Human  Nature  as  worthy  an  object  of  study  as  Inani- 
mate Nature?  Does  not  its  delineation  call  for  as  high  poetic  powers?  '  The 
proper  study  of  mankind  is  man.'  Was  there  ever  a  truer  line  than  this  hack- 
neyed one  of  Pope's  —  hackneyed  because  so  true? 

The  eighteenth  century  poets  then  (and  with  them  Dryden  belongs)  are  the 
poets  of  Human  Nature,  or,  more  specifically,  of  Man  in  Society;  they  confine 
themselves  almost  exclusively  to  this  topic  ;  they  love  the  '  sweet  shady  side  of 
Pall  Mall ; '  caring  almost  nothing  for  Inanimate  Nature,  they  have  their  limits, 
but  within  these  limits  they  arc  unexcelled  for  keen  observation  and  for  apho- 
ristic expression.  The  form  which  this  expression  takes  is  almost  invariably 
the  heroic  couplet,  an  instrument  that  Dryden  forged  out  of  crude  materials, ^ 
and  tliat  Pope  polished  until  it  became  smooth  and  shining  as  a  Venetian 
dagger  of  glass.     Let  us  not  quarrel  with  them,  as  did  Wordsworth,  because 

iGosse.     History  of   iSth  Century  Litcnilure,  p.  379. 

2  The  Chiiucerian  '  couplet'  is  a  ditTerent  thing-.  For  illustrations,  see  Notes  on 
Dryden's  Character  of  a  Good  Parson,  pp.  31-32. 


LIFE  AND  BIBLIOGRAPHY.  25 

they  contain  few  '  images  from  Nature,'  but  rather  let  us  study  them  sympa- 
thetically, remembering  Dryden's  saying :  Poetry,  which  is  an  image  of  Nature, 
must  generally  please,  but  'tis  not  to  be  understood  that  all  parts  of  it  must 
please  every  man. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


Born  in  Northamptonshire  in  1631.  He  came  of  a  Puritan  family,  and 
accordingly  was  sent  to  Cambridge,  where  he  took  his  degree  in  1654.  The 
political  and  religious  tendencies  of  his  later  years  estranged  him  completely 
from  his  University,  causing  him  even  to  write, 

Oxford  to  hiin  :i  dearer  name  shall  be 
Than  his  own  mother  University. 

After  the  Restoration  (1660)  he  took  to  the  writing  of  plays,  —  almost  the 
only  means  by  which  a  professional  author  could  then  make  a  living.  But  his 
genius  was  not  dramatic,  and  few  of  his  many  attempts  in  this  line  are  now  read, 
except  as  literary  curiosities.  He  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate  in  1670.  He 
did  not  find  his  true  vein  until  1681,  when  he  published  the  Absalom  and 
Achitophel,  the  greatest  of  English  satires  in  verse.  Macfiecknoe  (1682)  is 
hardly  inferior.  At  the  Revolution  (1688)  he  was  deprived  of  his  position 
as  Poet  Laureate,  and  was  compelled  to  return  to  the  uncongenial  task  of  play- 
writing.  To  many  of  his  plays  he  prefixed  introductions  in  which,  for  the  first 
time  in  England,  the  laws  of  dramatic  criticism  were  stated  and  discussed  clearly 
and  acutely.  The  prose  style  of  these  prefaces  is  clean-cut  and  modern,  and 
entitles  Dryden  to  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  to  break  away  from  the 
cumbersome  periods  in  which  English  prose  had  heretofore  obscured  itself. 
His  later  years  were  spent  upon  his  translation  of  Vergil  and  his  Fables.  His 
mind  was  always  quick  to  welcome  new  ideas,  and  the  work  of  his  declining 
years,  though  in  a  lighter  vein,  shows  no  falling-off  from  the  high  standard 
of  his  prime.     He  died  in  1700. 

Contemporaries  —  Milton,  Charles  IL,  Cowley,  Addison,  Swift,  Pope. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  The  complete  works  of  Dryden  are  to  be  found  in 
Samtsbury's  edition  of  18  vols.,  published  by  Paterson,  of  Edinburgh.  This 
edition  is  a  revision  of  Scott's ;  it  is  expensive,  and  hardly  to  be  found,  except 
in  a  large  city  or  university  library.  As  a  partial  substitute  may  be  used  (i) 
Saintsbury's  Life  in  the  E.M.L.,  a  model  short  biography;  (2)  Christie's 
excellent  edition  of  the  Poems  ;  (3)  T.  Arnold's  edition  of  the  Essay  on  Dramatic 
Poetry  (Macmillan).  Malone's  edition  of  the  prose  works  is  not  easy  to  pro- 
cure, nor  is  Tonson' s  edition  of  the  plays. 

Text.  —  Christie's  (Macmillan). 


28  NOTES   TO  DRYDEN. 

Criticism.  —  Johnson  ;  Lives  of  the  Poets.  In  the  Dryden  and  the  Pope  the 
Doctor  is  at  his  best. 

Afacaiday  •  Essay  on  Dryde/i.  Though  written  only  three  years  after  the 
Milton,  this  sliows  a  great  advance  in  critical  judgment. 

Lowell;  Essay  on  Dryden.  The  most  satisfactory  estimate,  but  fragmentary, 
like  so  much  of  Lowell's  prose  work.  Dryden's  best  performances  —  the 
Absalom  and  Achitophel  and  the  Fables  —  are  barely  touched  on. 

On  the  whole,  few  poets  have  been  more  fortunate  in  their  critics  than  Dryden. 
The  three  Essays  mentioned  above  make  a  high  average.  Much  less  pleasing 
is  Matthcio  Arnold,  who  in  his  Introduction  to  Ward's  English  Poets  delivers 
himself  of  an  extraordinary  ex  cathedra  judgment  on  Dryden  and  Pope.  See 
this  judgment  neatly  disposed  of  in  a  reductio  ad  absurdum  by  Courthope  in 
the  Elwin  and  Courthope  Pope,  V.  i6. 


EPISTLE    TO    CONGREVE. 

William  Congreve  was  the  first  comedy  writer  of  his  day.  The  best  short 
account  of  him  is  by  Swinburne  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  article  Con- 
greve.    See  also  Thackeray's  Congreve  and  Addison,  in  his  English  Humorists. 

Congreve's  first  play,  the  Old  Bachelor  (1693)  made  a  great  hit.  The  Double 
Dealer,  brought  out  the  same  year,  scored  only  a  succes  d'estime. 

i-io.  Strong  were  our  sires;  a  reference  to  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists,  the  last  of  whom  (Shirley)  lived  until  Dryden  was  a 
man  of  thirty-five.  when  Charles  returned;  Charles  IL    1660. 

He  was  the  last  English  king  with  any  literary  pretensions,  and  the 
praise  Dryden  awards  him  seems  not  undeserved.  His  native  wit, 
his  long  residence  in  France,  and  his  acquaintance  with  the  come- 
dies of  Moliere  made  him  a  critic  of  no  mean  ability.  Janus, 
according  to  one  legend,  assisted  Saturn  to  civilize  the  early  inhabi- 
tants of  Italy. 

11-19.  Vitruvius.  A  famous  Roman  architect,  a  contemporary 
of  Augustus.  For  Doric  columns,  see  a  picture  of  the  Parthenon ; 
for  Corinthian,  of  the  Madeleine;  for  Ionic,  of  the  Temple  of  Wing- 
less Victory  on  the  Acropolis. 

20-27.  Fletcher;  the  friend  of  Shakespeare,  with  whom  he  is 
supposed  to  have  written  The  Ttvo  iVol>lc  Kinsmen.  Many  of  his 
plays  were  written  with  Beaumont;  of  these,  The  Knight  of  the 
Burning  Pestle  for  humor  and  Philaster  for  pathos,  are  not  unworthy 
of  Shakespeare  himself.  Jonson;  see  notes  on  L'Allegro,  126- 

134.  The  magnificent  compliment  in  lines  26-7  owes  something  to 
the   partiality  of  friendship. 

28-34.  Etherege ;  a  friend  of  Dryden's;  the  earliest  and  not  the 
least  of  the  Restoration  comedy  writers.  There  has  been  preserved 
a  letter  in  verse  which  Dryden  wrote  him  when  he  was  minister  at 


EPISTLE    TO    CONG  RE  VE.  27 

Hamburg  or  Ratisbon.  Southern  ;  an  indifferent  play-writer 

and  a  protege  of  Dryden's. 

35-40.  Fabius;  Scipio;  Hannibal.  Consult  a  History  of  Rome 
under  the  years  206-205  B.C.  Raphael,  the  great  Italian  painter, 

died  1^20.  "  Sweet  poetry  and  music  and  tender  hymns  drop  from 
him ;  he  lifts  his  pencil  and  something  gracious  falls  from  it  on  the 
paper.  How  noble  his  mind  inust  have  been  !  It  seems  but  to 
receive  and  his  eye  seems  only  to  rest  on  what. is  great  and  generous 
and  lovely."     Thackeray,  Newcomes,  Chapter  xxxv. 

41-48.  Edward.  In  1327,  Parliament  deposed  the  weak  and  in- 
competent Edward  II.  and  declared  his  son,  Edward  of  Windsor, 
successor.  If  we  exclude  Oliver  Cromwell,  Edward  III.  is  probably 
the  ablest  Englishman  that  has  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne. 
Tom  the  First.  Dryden  was  succeeded  in  the  position  of  Poet  Lau- 
reate and  Historiographer  Royal  by  Thomas  Shadwell,  an  indifferent 
Whig  poet  whom  he  had  mercilessly  satirized  as  Macflecknoe. 
Tom  the  Second  must  be  Thomas  Rymer,  who  was  made  Histo- 
riographer Royal  on  Shadwell's  death  in  1692,  Nahum  Tate  be- 
coming Poet  Laureate. 

49-63.  wear  (54) ;  this  infinitive  must  be  connected  with  line 
c;i.  first   attempt;    Congreve's    comedy    The    Old    Bachelor, 

regular,  as  explained  by  the  next  line,  refers  to  the  Unities  of  Time, 
Place,  and  Action,  which  the  French  critics  derived  (or  thought  they 
derived)  from  the  Poetics  of  Aristotle  and  the  usage  of  the  Attic 
dramatists.  The  Unities  require  that  the  events  in  a  play  shall  be 
only  such  as  could  happen  within  one  revolution  of  the  sun;  that 
the  scene  must  not  be  shifted  from  one  place  to  another  and  that 
nothing  shall  be  introduced  that  does  not  further  the  development 
of  the  main  plot.  The  success  of  the  Shakesperian  drama,  in  which 
the  first  two  Unities  are  disregarded,  shows  that  with  the  exception 
of  the  last  they  are  of  little  importance  now,  whatever  value  they 
may  have  had  in  forming  critical  opinion  in  the  past.  (For  a  brief 
but  admirably  philosophic  discussion  of  the  Unities,  see  Coleridge's 
Lecture  on  The  Progress  of  the  Drama.)  Shakespeare;  this 

coupling  of  Congreve  with  Shakespeare  seems  humorous  to  us- 
though  it  probably  did  not  impress  Congreve  in  that  way. 

64-77.  'tis  impossible  you  should  proceed.  Dryden  was  mis 
taken  here.  In  1695  Congreve  produced  his  best  comedy.  Love  for 
Love.  For  keen  wit  and  brilliant  dialogue  nothing  was  written  in 
England  to  equal  this  until  Sheridan's  School  for  Scandal  (1777). 
th'  ungrateful  stage.  In  the  year  previous  to  this,  Dryden's  twenty- 
sixth  pla\-,  Cleomenes,  had  proved  almost  a  failure.  defend  .  .  . 
your  departed  friend.     Congreve,  in  one  of  the  few  respectable  acts 


28  NOTES    TO    DRYDEAT. 

of  his  life,  proved  himself  worthy  the  appeal  here  made  him,  by 
bringing  out  a  fine  edition  of  Dryden's  plays. 

After  allowing  a  little  for  the  equation  of  personal  friendship,  you  will  find  in 
this  poem  acute  criticism,  fine  feeling,  strong  and  harmonious  versification. 
What  other  excellences  can  you  point  out  ? 

ALEXANDER'S    FEAST. 

The  legend  of  Saint  Cecilia's  martyrdom  has  been  told  by  Chaucer,  with  true 
mediaeval  crudeness,  in  The  Seconde  Nonnes  Tale.  She  is  not  there  spol<en 
of  as  the  patron  saint  of  music,  nor  is  it  clear  that  in  the  Golden  Legend  (thir- 
teenth century),  upon  which  Chaucer's  tale  is  based,  her  musical  powers  are 
even  referred  to.  A  misunderstanding  of  '  cantantibus  organls  ilia  in  corde  suo 
soli  Domino  cantabat'  ('  While  the  organs  were  playing  she  was  singing  in  her 
heart  to  God  alone  '),  seems  responsible  for  her  fame  as  a  musician  and  as  the 
inventress  of  the  organ.  The  22d  of  November  is  her  day,  and  was  celebrated 
by  musical  societies  in  London..  Dryden  wrote  the  Ode  in  1687  as  well  as  in 
1697 ;  Pope  in  1708. 

1-19.  Persia  won.  Consult  a  History  of  Greece  under  the  year 
331  B.C.  Their  brows  with  roses,  etc.     You  can  see  illustra- 

tions of  this  in  many  of  the  Alma-Tadema  pictures. 

20-46.  Timotheus,  the  Theban,  of  whom  nothing  is  known  save 
that  he  was  a  musician  at  the  court  of  Alexander.  The  more  fainous 
Timotheus  of  Miletus  died  in  357  B.C.  quire  ;  of  the  two  spell- 

ings '  quire'  and  'choir'  (both  from  the  Latin  chorus),  the  former 
is  inuch  the  older  in  English.  seats  =  abodes;    sedcs   is    used 

in    this    sense    by    Vergil    and    Horace.  belied  =  disguised, 

sublime  ;  here  used  in   its  literal  sense.  Olympia ;  more  cor- 

rectly Olyinpias,  the  mother  of  Alexander.  Lines  39-41  are  imi- 
tated from  the  Iliad,   i.  528-30 : 

He  spoke  and  awful  bends  his  sable  brows, 
Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,   and  gives  the  nod, 
The  stamp  of  fate  and  sanction  of  the  god : 
High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  signal  took 
And  all  Olympus  to  the  centre  shook. 

(Pope.) 

Phidias  is  said  to  have  patterned  his  Olympian  Jove  upon  the  de- 
scription in  these  lines  of  Homer.  For  a  cut  of  this  figure,  see  CI. 
Myths,  p.  54. 

47-65.  With  the  magnificent  \igor  of  this  stanza  compare  the 
more  romantic  and  delicate  treatment  of  the  same  theme  by  Keats 
in  the  fourth  book  of  Endvmion  : 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  29 

.    .    .    over  the  light-blue  hills 

There  came  a  noise  of  revellers :  the  rills 

Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue  — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din  — 

'Twas   Bacchus  and  his  kin  1 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame; 
All  madly  dancing   through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee.  Melancholy ! 

honest  =  Latin  '  honestus,'  in  its  poetical  meaning  of  '  fair-seem- 
ing,' '  handsome.'  hautboys,  a  corruption  of  the  French  '  haut' 
(high)  and  'bois'  (wood);  the  wood  instrument  of  high  pitch  or 
tone.     The  Italian  form,  Oboe,  is  now  common  in  English. 

66-92.  Lines  70-73  illustrate  the  poverty  of  modern  English  in 
pronominal  forms.  His  and  he  in  70  and  71  must  refer  to  Alex- 
ander ;  the  first  his  in  72  to  Timotheus,  the  second  his  to  Alexander. 
He  in  73  takes  us   back   to   Timotheus   again.  Muse  =  song, 

strain.     Compare  the  use  of  this  word  in  Ljcidas   19.  welter- 

ing;   compare  Lycidas    12.  Darius;  see   note   on   Persia  won, 

line   I.        Lines    77-8  are    perhaps    an    echo   from    Par.    Lost,    vii. 

25-6. 

.     .     .     though  fallen  on  evil  days, 
On  evil  days  though  fallen     .     .     . 

93-122.     Lydian  measures ;  compare  L'Allegro  136.  toil  and 

trouble;  from  the  Witches'  Refrain  in  Macbeth  iv.  i. 

Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 

Honour  but  an  empty  bubble;  might  serve  as  text  for  Falstaff's 
Sermon  in  L  Wy-  iv.  5.  i.  Sheridan  has  the  same  thought  ad- 
mirably expressed  through  the  medium  of  Low  Comedy;  The 
Rivals,  iv.  i.  '■'■David.  .  .  .  Look'ee,  master,  this  honour 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  marvellous  false  friend ;  ay,  truly,  a  very 
courtier-like' servant.  —  Put  the  case,  I  was  a  gentleinan  (which, 
thank  God,  no  one  can  say  of  me);  well  —  my  honour  makes  me 
quarrel  with  another  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance.  —  So  —  we 
fight.  (Pleasant  enough  that!)  Boh!  —  I  kill  him  —  (the  more's 
my  luck!)  now,  pray  who  gets  the  profit  of  it.'' — -Why,  my  honour. 
But  put  the  case  that  he  kills  me! — by  the  mass!  I  go  to  the 
worms,  and  my  honotu-  whips  over  to  my  enemy.  Acres.  No, 
David  —  in  that  case! — Odds  crowns  and  laurels!  your  honour 
follows  you  to  the  grave.  David.     Now,  that's  just  the  place 


30  NOTES    TO    DRYDEN. 

where  I  could  make  a  shift  to  do  without  it."  at  once  =  at  the 

same  time,  simultaneously. 

123-154.     Furies;  see  notes  on  Fury  in  Lycidas,  75.  ghastly; 

usage  seems  to  have  firmly  established  this  form,  which  is  really  a 
mis-spelling  for  '  gastly,'  from  the  Middle  English  '  gastly '  = 
terrible.  'Gastly'  seems  to  have  no  etymological  connection  with 
'ghost,'  which  is  from  the  Old  English  gast  =  spirit,  breath; 
German,    '  geist.'  unburied;    notice    that    not    the    heroes    are 

'  inglorious,' but  their  '  ghosts,'  and  they  are  'inglorious'  because 
'  unburied.'  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  ancestor-worship  was 
a  very  early  form  of  belief  among  the  Greeks.  The  spirit  of  the 
departed  was  supposed  to  live  underground  with  the  body. 
Clothing  and  arms  were  placed  in  the  grave,  slaves  and  horses 
were  slain  upon  it,  that  they  might  serve  the  departed  as  in  this 
life.  '  From  this  primitive  belief  came  the  necessity  of  burial.  In 
order  that  the  soul  might  be  confined  to  this  subterranean  abode, 
which  was  suited  to  its  second  life,  it  was  necessary  that  the  body 
to  which  it  remained  attached  should  be  covered  with  earth.  The 
soul  that  had  no  tomb  had  no  dwelling-place.  It  was  a  wandering 
spirit.  In  vain  it  sought  the  repose  which  it  would  naturally  desire 
after  the  agitations  and  labor  of  this  life ;  it  must  wander  forever 
under  the  form  of  a  larva,  or  phantom,  without  ever  stopping, 
without  ever  receiving  the  offerings  and  the  food  which  it  had  need 
of.  Unfortunately,  it  soon  became  a  malevolent  spirit ;  it  tormented 
the  living;  it  brought  diseases  upon  them,  ravaged  their  harvests, 
and  frightened  them  by  gloomy  apparitions,  to  warn  them  to  give 
sepulture  to  its  body  and  to  itself.  From  this  came  the  belief  in 
ghosts.  All  antiquity  was  persuaded  that  without  burial  the  soul 
was  miserable,  and  that  by  burial  it  became  forever  happy.  It  was 
not  to  display  their  grief  that  they  performed  the  funeral  ceremony, 
it  was  for  the  rest  and  happiness  of  the  dead.'- — ^Coulangrs,  The 
Ancient  City,  B'k  i.  Cap.  i.  Verify  these  statements  by  reading 
the  appeal  of  Elpenor's  ghost  to  Ulysses,  near  the  opening  of 
Odyssey  xi. ;  see  also  the  interview  between  .Eneas  and  the  ghost 
of    Palinurus   in   ^neid  VI.    337-383.  Thais.     This    story  of 

Thais  rests  upon  very  doubtful  authority ;  it  is  probably  as 
authentic  as  that  of  King  Alfi-ed  and  the  Cakes  or  of  George 
Washington  and    the  Cherry  Tree.  Helen.      You  know  that 

Helen  did  not  literally  set  fire  to  Troy.  What  does  Dryden  mean, 
then .' 

155-180.  She  drew  an  angel  down.  Tn  the  Pinacoteca  of  Bologna 
there  is  a  beautiful  painting  by  Raphael,  of  St.  Cecilia  listening  to 
the  singing  of  six  angels.     She  is  the  central  figure  of  a  group,  the 


THE    CHARACTER    OF  A    GOOD   PARSON.  31 

other  members  of  which  are  St.  Paul,  St.  John,  St.  Augustine  and 
Mary  Magdalene. 

Some  of  the  echoes  from  Shakespeare  and  Milton  in  this  poem  have  been 
pointed  out.  Perhaps  you  can  find  others.  Notice  also  the  many  instances  of 
effective  alliteration  and  repetition.  Had  Dryden's  plays  been  as  dramatic  as 
this  ode,  they  would  still  be  acted. 

THE    CHARACTER    OF    A    GOOD    PARSON. 

So  exacting  a  critic  as  Saintsbury  calls  Dryden's  Fables  '  the  most  brilliantly 
successful  of  all  his  poetical  experiments.'  ^  Professor  Lounsbury,  in  an  elabo- 
rate comparison  between  Chaucer  and  Dryden,'  declares  of  the  latter  :  '  His 
versions  of  the  ancient  poet  take  the  first  rank  in  order  of  merit  as  well  as  in 
order  of  time.'  Of  the  five  '  Translations  from  Chaucer '  in  Dryden's  book,  the 
one  here  given  is  the  shortest,  and  if  not  the  best  is  certainly  inferior  to  none. 
You  will  find  it  interesting  to  compare  Dryden's  treatment  with  the  original, 
which  runs  as  follows  : 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun. 
And  was  a  povre  Persoun  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk. 
That  Cristas  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigue  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent. 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient; 
And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ofte  sythes. 
Kul  looth  \vere  hiin  to  cursen  for  his  tythes, 
But  rather  ^voIde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  ofFring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce. 
Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  a-sonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat,  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 
In  siknes  nor  in  meschief,  to  visyte 
The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lyte, 
Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensaniple  to  liis  slieep  he  yaf. 
That  first  he  wroghte,  and  afterward  he  taughte; 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte; 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to. 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  iren  do? 
For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewd  man  to  ruste; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keep, 
A  [dirty]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 
Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive. 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold  live. 

1  Saintsbury's  Dryden,  Cap.  viii. 

2  Studies  in  Chaucer,  vol.  iii.,  pp.  156-179. 


32  NOTES    TO  DRYDEN. 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  llie  myre, 
And  ran  to  London,  un-to  seynt  Poules, 
To  seken  him  a  chaunterye  for  soules, 
Or  with  a  brctherheed  to  been  witliholde; 
But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  iiiiscarie; 
He  was  a  sliepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vcrtuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous, 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne. 
But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 
By  good  ensample,  was  his  bisinesse : 
But  it  were  any  person  obstinat, 
What-so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 
A  bettre  preest,  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  is. 
He  wayted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  makcd  him  a  spyced  conscience. 
But  Christes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 
He  taughte,  and  first  he  folwed  it  him-selve. 

In  Dryden's  versification  (and  in  Pope's)  you  will  notice  how  the  thought  is 
ahnost  invariably  completed  within  the  couplet :  in  Chaucer  the  thought  com- 
monly runs  over  into  the  third  line,  and  sometimes  continues  even  further. 

i-ii.     As  =  as  if.  too  fast;  in  a  good  sense,  as  explained  by 

lines  lo  and  1 1. 

12-24.     nothing  of   severe;  a  Latinism,    'nihil    severi.'  his 

action  free  ;  '  action  '  seems  to  be  a  metonymy  for  '  oratory.'  the 
golden  chain.  The  idea  of  a  golden  chain  binding  Heaven  to  Earth 
seems  to  have  originated  in  Homer,  Iliad  viii.  19-27,  where  Zeus 
declai-es  :  '  Fasten  ye  a  rope  of  gold  from  heaven,  and  all  ye  gods  lay 
hold  thereof  and  all  goddesses ;  yet  could  ye  not  drag  from  heaven 
to  earth  Zeus,  counsellor  supreme,  not  though  ye  toiled  sore.  But 
once  I  likewise  were  minded  to  draw  with  all  my  heart,  then  should 
I  draw  yoti  up  with  very  earth  and  sea  withal.  Thereafter  would  I 
bind  the  rope  about  a  pinnacle  of  Olympus,  and  so  shotild  all  these 
things  be  hung  in  air.  By  so  much  am  I  beyond  gods  and  beyond 
men.'  Chaucer  (following  Boethius)  in  the  Knight's  Tale  (2133-5) 
says, 

.     .    .     with  that  fair  cheyne  of  love  he  bond 
The  fyr,  the  eyr,  the  water  and  the  lond 
In  certeyn  boundes,  that  they  may  nat  flee. 

This  is  rendered  by  Drvdcn  in  liis  Palamon  and  Arcite,  iii. 
102S-9. 

Fire,  flood  and  earth  and  air  by  this  were  bound, 

And  Love,  the  common  link,  the  new  creation  crowned. 


THE   CHARACTER    OE  A    GOOD   PARSON.  33 

Compare  Jeremy  Taylor's  '  Faith  is  the  golden  chain  to  link  the 
penitent  sinner  unto  God.'  music  [of]  the  spheres,  dates  back 

to  Pythagoras  (about  600  B.C.)-  We  have  a  beautiful  expression 
of  this  thought  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  v.  i. 

Look,  how  the  floor  of  Heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls;  — 

Lines  21-4  are  supposed  to  refer  to  Bishop  Ken,  the  Non-Juror, 
the  author  of  Morning  and  Evening  Hymns.  See  comment  on 
lines  98-140. 

25-41.     exhales  =  '  draws  forth,'  '  causes  to  flow,'  as  in 

.     .     .     thy  presence  that  exhales  this  blood 
From  cold  and  empty  veins.    .     .     . 

Rich.  iii.  L  2,  58-9. 

The  imagery  in  lines  34-7  is  evidently  from  the  old  ^Esop's  Fable, 
The  Sun,  The  Wind  and  The  Traveler. 

For  38-41  see  L  Kings,  xix.  9-13.  harbinger.    This  beautiful 

Old  English  word  is  seldom  met  with  today  in  prose,  but  has  been 
preserved  for  us  by  the  poets.  It  originally  designated  a  king's  offi- 
cer who,  when  the  Court  travelled,  went  one  day  ahead  to  provide 
lodging  and  entertainment. 

42-49.  tithes,  literally  '  tenths  ; '  the  tenth  part  of  the  produce  of 
the  land,  paid  to  the  clergy.  bell  and  book.     See  Brewer,  article 

'  Cursing  by  Bell,  Book,  and  Candle.'  In  Barham's  Jackdaw  of 
Rheims  we  have  a  curse  of  this  kind  given  in  picturesque  detail; 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 

He  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his  book! 

In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 

He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief  ! 

He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in  bed; 

From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of  his  head ; 

He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every  night 

He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake  in  a  fright; 

He  cursed  him  in  eating,  he  cursed  him  in  drinking, 

He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing,  in  winking; 

He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in  lying; 

He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in  flying, 

He  cursed  him  in  living,  he  cursed  him  in  dying! 

Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse  ! 

50-59.  For  the  sentiment  of  these  beautiful  lines  compare  Hugo's 
Les  Miserables,  ii.  3,  '  The  Bishop,  who  was  sitting  near  him  [the 


34  NOTES    TO    DRYDEN. 

convict],  gently  touched  his  hand.  "...  This  is  not  my  house  ;  it 
is  the  house  of  Jesus  Christ.  This  door  does  not  demand  of  him 
who  enters  whether  he  has  a  name,  but  whether  he  has  a  griet".  You 
suffer,  you  are  hungry  and  thirsty;  you  are  welcome.  And  do  not 
thank  me;  do  not  say  that  I  receive  you  in  my  house.  No  one  is 
at  home  here  except  the  man  that  needs  a  refuge.  I  say  to  you  who 
are  passing  by,  that  you  are  much  more  at  home  here  than  I  myself. 
Everything  here  is  yours."  ' 

60-74.  Paul's,  means  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  Cliuichyard  in 
London.  In  Chaucer  we  are  told  that  the  Parson  did  not  run  to  St. 
Paul's  to  seek  him  a  chantry  for  souls.  In  Dryden  the  application 
of  the  term  Paul's  is  wilder,  and  contains  an  allusion  to  the  traffic 
carried  on  in  the  churchyard  of  the  Cathedral.  Streets  and  shops 
have  gradually  encroached  upon  this  yard,  and  bookstores  here  do 
largely  congregate.     This  is  the  explanation  of   the  '  Published  by 

,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,'  which  you   see  on  the  title  pages  of 

some  English  books. 

75-97.  For  line  90,  see  John  xix.  36;  for  line  94,  John  xix.  2; 
for  line  95,  Matthew  xxvii.  28.  sons  .  .  .  Zebedee.     See  Mat- 

thew XX.  20-2S;  iv.  20-21. 

There  is  nothing  in  Chaucer  to  correspond  with  lines  98-140.  Dryden  in- 
serted this  passage  to  express  his  admiration  for  the  Non-Jurors  —  some  three 
hundred  or  four  hundred  Church  of  England  clergymen  who  had  refused  to 
take  the  oaths  of  supremacy  and  allegiance  to  William  and  Mary,  and  who 
were  therefore  deprived  of  their  benefices  (1690).  The  most  illustrious  of  these 
was  Ken.  An  elaborate  account  of  this  movement  will  be  found  in  Macaulay's 
History,  Chapter  xiv.  The  reference  in  Dryden  is  thinly  disguised  by  throwing 
back  the  scene  to  the  last  year  but  one  of  Chaucer's  life  —  the  year  1399,  when 
Richard  II.  was  deposed  by  Henry  IV. 

98-105.  Reflecting,  Moses-like.  See  Exodus  xxxiv,  29-35.  Fo*" 
line  105  see  Genesis  ii.  3. 

106-122.     The  tempter;  Job    i.  9-12;   ii.  4-6.  Near  though  he 

was.  William  of  Orange  was  the  nephew  of  the  deposed  James  II. ; 
Henry  of  Bolingbroke  was  the  cousin  of  Richard  II.  The  next 

of  blood  to  James  II.  was  his  infant  son  James  Edward,  afterwards 
known  as  the  Old  Pretender;  the  next  of  blood  to  Richard  II.  was 
Edinund,  Earl  of  March.  For  the  political  events  referred  to  in 

lines  1 15-122,  consult  a  History  of  England  under  the  years  16SS-9. 

123-140.  The  rest  in  orders.  When  a  man  becomes  a  clergyman 
in  the  Church  of  England  he  is  said  to  '  take  orders.'  The  rest 

in  orders,  then,  are  the  clergy  who  consented  to  take  the  oaths  of 
supremacy  and  allegiance.  Notice  the  clever  inuendo  [innuendo] 
in  these  lines.  For  the  metaphor  in  the  Alexandrine  that  enda 

the  song,  see  note  on  'foil'  in  Lycidas,  79. 


LIFE   AND   BIBLIOGRAPHY.  35 


ALEXANDER    POPE. 


Alexander  Pope,  'the  most  brilliant  of  all  wits  who  have  at  any  period 
applied  themselves  to  the  poetic  treatment  of  human  manners,'  l  was  born  in 
1588  —  the  year  of  the  Revolution.  Being  a  Roman  Catholic,  he  was  excluded 
by  his  religion  from  the  benefits  of  a  University  training.  Though  an  omniv- 
orous reader,  his  education  in  the  classics  was  desultory  and  superficial.  The 
result  of  this  is  painfully  apparent  in  his  Paraphrase  (sometimes  called  a  Trans- 
lation) of  Homer,  whereof  Bentley  said  with  equal  truth  and  wit, '  Very  pretty 
poetry,  Mr.  Pope,  but  pray  don't  call  it  Homer.'  The  first  volume  of  this 
appeared  in  1715,  when  Pope  was  only  twenty-seven;  chiefiy  through  the  disin- 
terested exertions  of  Swift,  the  list  of  subscribers  grew  to  such  dimensions  that 
Pope  was  assured  of  a  modest  competency  for  life.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock 
(completed  in  171-1)  stands  to-day  as  the  best  mock-heroic  poem  in  English, 
while  the  Eloisa  to  Abelard  (1717)  shows  that  Pope  is  not  deficient  in  the  third 
requirement  of  the  Miltonic  canon  —  Passion.  Immortal  lines  are  to  be  found 
scattered  through  Pope's  attempts  at  literary  criticism  {Essay  on  Criticism)  and 
at  philosophy  {Essay  on  Man),  nor  can  we  deny  to  the  former  the  merit  of 
having  done  much  to  develope  sound  critical  principles  in  England.  The  work 
of  his  maturer  years  is  to  be  found  in  the  Epistles  and  Satires ;  when  you 
have  studied  the  specimens  given  in  this  book,  you  will  have  at  least  some 
data  upon  which  you  can  form  an  independent  judgment  that  may  or  may 
not  agree  with  that  of  De  Quincey,  quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this  article. 
To  the  deformity  of  Pope's  body  may  be  attributed  some  of  the  irascibility 
of  his  temper.  He  was  engaged  in  perpetual  quarrels ;  sometimes  with  men 
of  character  and  ability  who  would  have  been  his  best  friends ;  oftener  with 
denizens  of  Grub  Street  quite  beneath  his  notice.  His  nature  seemed  to 
crave  the  excitement  of  a  continual  literary  hawking-party ;  among  the  larger 
game  at  whom  he  flew  his  birds  were  George  H.  (see  the  Epistle  to  Augustus), 
the  Duchess  of  Mariborough,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  Gibber,  Defoe, 
Tickell,  Addison  and  Bentley.  He  was  not  perfectly  sincere  with  even  his 
most  intimate  friends,  Bolingbroke  and  Swift:  to  the  latter,  this  melancholy 
revelation  was  spared ;  to  the  former  it  was  disclosed  only  after  Pope's  death 
in  1744. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  For  the  advanced  student  and  the  teacher,  all  former 
editions  of  Pope  have  been  superseded  by  that  of  Elwin  and  Courtkope  in  ten 
volumes  (London,  1871-89).     (To  this  edition  the  editor  of  this  book  is  under 

1  De  Quincey. 


36  NOTES    TO  POPE. 


constant  obligation.)  It  seems  as  if  the  diligence  of  these  editors  had  left  little 
for  future  generations  to  glean.  The  work  is  extremely  uneven  in  quality. 
For  Vols.  i.  ii.  vi.  vii.  viii.  Elwin  is  responsible ;  in  addition  to  much  useful 
information,  they  contain  a  tirade  of  abuse  against  Pope,  which  shows  the  editor 
to  have  been  lacking  in  the  first  essential  "of  a  good  biographer  —  sympathy 
with  his  subject.  For  Vols.  iii.  iv.  v.  ix.  x.  Courthope  is  responsible :  while 
quite  as  scholarly  as  the  others,  they  are  marked  by  sympathetic  treatment  and 
delightful  literary  finish.  Vol.  v.  contains  the  Life  of  Pope;  in  this,  the  six- 
teenth chapter,  on  The  Place  of  Pope  in  Literature,  is  especially  valuable  and 
contains  the  refutation  of  Matthew  Arnold's  judgment  on  Dryden  and  Pope 
referred  to  on  p.  26  of  these  notes. 

Teachers  who  cannot  get  access  to  Courthope's  Life  should  consult  Leslie 
Stephen  s  ■a,&m.\x2i!o\e.  little  book  on  Pope  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series, 
For  the  social  life  of  the  times  see  Thackeray  s  masterpiece,  Henry  Esmond; 
also  his  George  I.  and  George  II.  in  The  Four  Georges.  For  the  History,  see 
Green,  Chapter  IX.  Sec.  9-10. 

Text:  Elwin  and  Cotirthope,  as  ahowe;  or  IFarrf  (MacMillan). 

Criticism.  Addison,  Spectator,  No.  2£j.  Thoroughly  commonplace  and 
interesting  only  as  a  contemporary  view. 

Alacaulay ;  Essay  on  Addison.  Contains  a  rather  one-sided  account  of  the 
quarrel  between  Addison  and  Pope,  in  which  Addison  (as  a  good  Whig)  is  all 
white  and  Pope  (as  a  bad  Tory)  is  all  black.     For  the  other  side,  see 

Thackeray  s  Prior,  Gay  and  Pope  in  his  English  Humorists. 

Johnson^s  Pope,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  contains  the  famous  parallel 
between  Dryden  and  Pope. 

De  Quincey ;  Three  Essays,  (i)  Alexander  Pope.  Sympathetic  and  pene- 
trating. Contains,  however,  one  'prodigious  oversight'  in  the  false  psycho- 
logical analysis  of  Pope's  Atticus.  (2)  On  The  Poetry  of  Pope.  Contains  an 
elaborate  examination  of  Pope's  'correctness.'  (3)  Lord  Carlisle  on  Pope. 
Deals  with  Pope's  philosophy  and  his  theory  of  French  Influences  in  English 
Literature. 

Lowell ;  Essay  on  Pope.  A  very  brief  treatment  that  adds  little  to  our  pre- 
vious knowledge. 

Montegut ;  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  iii.  86,  274.  Interesting  as  showing 
the  high  opinion  of  Pope  entertained  by  a  cultured  Frenchman. 

Gosse  :  from  Shakespeare  to  Pope.  Has  a  good  account  of  the  rise  of  '  class- 
ical '  poetry  in  England. 


EPISTLE     TO     MR.    JERVAS. 

This  epistle  was  published  in  17 17.  Jervas  had  given  Pope  lessons  in 
painting,  and  alter  the  death  of  Kneller  in  1723,  became  the  most  distinguisher' 
portrait-painter  of  the  day.  His  abundant  self-esteem  caused  him  to  do  an 
say  many  ridiculous  things;  the  best  remembered  of  these  is  the  anecdote  o 
his  copying  a  I'itian,  and  then  exclaiming,  as  he  compared  his  own  work  with 
the  original,  '  Poor  little  Tit,  how  he  would  stare  1  '  Fresnoy  or  Dufresnoy 
(d.  1665),  a  French  painter,  whose  Latin  poem  De  Arte  Graphica  is  here 
referred  to. 


EPISTLE     TO    MR.    JERWIS.  37 

I-I2.     Muse;     compare    Ljcidas    19.  strike     .     .     .     blend; 

notice  the  use  of  the  subjunctive  in  the  dependent  clauses.  close 

Art.     See  lines  39-40  and  notes  there.  regular.     Pope  appears 

never  to  have  known  exactly  what  lie  meant  by  '  regular';  he  seems 
to  use  it  as  a  loose  synonym  for  '  polished,'  '  finished,'  '  in  good 
taste.'  rage  =  poetic    inspiration,    enthusiasm.      This    use    of 

'  rage'  is  in  imitation  of  the  '  divina  rabies'  (divine  madness)  of  the 
Latin  poets.     Among  the  ancients,  insanity  was  often  looked  upon 
as  a  sign  of  inspiration.     Compare  the  well-known  story  of  Cas- 
sandra; also  Vergil's  description  of  the  Sybil  in  .Eneid  vi.  46-51. 
Her  colour  changed,  her  face  wafc  not  the  same, 
And  hollow  groans  from  her  deep  spirit  came. 
Her  hair  stood  up,  convulsive  rage  possessed 
Her  trembling  limbs,  and  heaved  her  labouring  breast. 
Greater  than  human  kind  she  seemed  to  look, 
And  with  an  accent  more  than  mortal  spoke. 
Her  staring  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  roll. 
When  all  the  god  came  rushing  on  her  soul. 

(Dryden.) 

13-22.    unite    .    .    .    contract.    What  parts  of  the  verb.?  both, 

is  of  course  tautological.  You  have  here  an  example  of  a  defect 
inherent  in  the  heroic  couplet ;  in  order  to  make  the  thought  fill  up 
twenty  syllables,  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  expand  and  weaken  it 
by   the    introduction    of    unnecessary    words.  slowly-growing 

works.     Is  this  subject  or  object? 

23-38.  Raphael's  Monument.  Raphael  is  buried  in  a  vault 
behind  the  liigh  altar  of  the  Pantheon  at  Rome.  See  note  on 
Raphael  in  tiie  comment  on  line  39  of  Dryden's  Epistle  to  Con- 
greve.  Maro  =  Publius  Vergilius  Maro,  shortened  and  Angli- 

cized to  'Vergil."  He  was  buried  by  his  own  request  near  Naples; 
tradition    still    points    out    the    spot.  Tully  =  Marcus    Tullius 

Cicero,  the  famous  Roman  orator,  killed  at  Formiae  by  order  of 
Antony  in  43  B.C.  builds  imaginary  Rome  anew;  meaning,  '  in 

imagination    builds    Rome    anew.'  Guido  =  Guido    Reni    who 

died  in  1642 ;  best  known  by  his  beautiful  Aurora  and  by  the 
Beatrice  Cenci  commonly  attributed   to   him.  Caracci;    there 

were  sevei-al  Italian  painters  of  this  name,  the  most  distinguished 
of  whom  was  Annibale  Caracci,  d.  1609.  Correggio  (Antonio 

Allegri)  so  called  from  his  birthplace  (now  Reggio),  a  little  town 
near  Modena.  His  pictures  are  famous  for  their  delicate  treatment 
of  light  and  shade,  —  or,  to  use  the  artist's  word,  their  chiaroscuro. 
He  died  in  1534.  Paulo;  (Paul  Cagliari),  best  known  in  English 

as  Paul  Veronese,  or  Paul  of  Verona  (d.  158S).  His  paintings  are 
crowded  with  anachronisms  which  we  must  forget  in  order  to  enjoy 


38  NOTES   TO  POPE. 


the  brilliancv  and  harmonv  of  his  coloring.  In  his  most  famous 
picture,  The  Marriage  of  Cana,  the  characters  wear  gorgeous 
sixteenth  century  costumes;  The  Virgin,  The  T\velve  Apostles, 
Venetian  Senators,  -Mediaeval  Friars  and  Poets  are  all  here;  among 
the  musicians  at  the  feast  we  have  portraits  of  Tintoretto,  of  Titian 
and  of  Paulo  himself.  Titian  (Tiziano  Vecellio),  the  greatest 

of  portrait  painters  and  of  colorists,  was  a  native  of  Venice.  He 
lived  to  the  extraordinary  age  of  99,  with  his  intellectual  powers 
unimpaired.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  the  three  great  painters 
of  the  world  —  Michael  Angelo,  Titian  and  Raphael  —  w-ere  all 
Italians ;  that  they  were  born  Avithin  nine  years  of  each  other  and 
that  they  w^ere  all  producing  immortal  work  during  the  first  twenty 
years  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

39-54.  illustrious  toil.  Fresnoy  is  said  to  have  spent  twenty 
years  on  his  poem.  strike,  in  the  sense  of  '  impress,'  as  in  the 

colloquial  '  How  does  this  strike  you.''  Bridgewater;  Elizabeth, 

Countess  of  Bridgewater,  third  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough. She  was  a  famous  beauty  and  Jervas  imagined  himself 
in  love  with  her.     She  died  in  1714  when  only  twenty-seven. 

55-62.       engage  =  attract    and    fix.  Churchill's    race ;     Lady 

Bridgewater,  mentioned  above,  and  her  three  sisters.  Lady  Godol- 
phin.  Lady  Sunderland  and  Lady  Montagu.  Their  portraits  are 
still  to  be  seen  at  Blenheim.  Worsley:  in  the  original  edition 

this  read  '  Wortley '  and  refei-red  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu, 
whom  Pope  at  this  time  greatly  admired.  After  his  famous  quarrel 
with  her,  he  deprived  her  of  the  compliment  by  changing  /  to  5. 
Lady  Worsley's  eyes  seem  to  have  made  a  deep  impression  on  Swift 
as  well  as  on  Pope.  (See  Swift's  letter  to  her  of  April  19,  1730.) 
Blount;  Martha  Blount  was  the  younger  of  two  comely  sisters  who 
played  an  important  part  in  Pope's  life.  With  Teresa  Blount  he 
quarrelled;  for  Martha  his  admiration  —  perhaps  his  love  —  re- 
mained constant.  Dying,  he  bequeathed  her  the  greater  part  of 
his    personal    property.  Belinda;  Miss   Arabella   Fermor,   the 

heroine  of  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock. 

63-78.     Graces;  see  note  on  L' Allegro   15.  Muses;  see  CI. 

.Myths,  §  43  (4).  Zeuxis,  the  most  famous  of  Greek   painters, 

is  supposed  to  have  flourished  about  400  B.C.  His  masterpiece  w-as 
the  picture  of  Helen  here  referred  to,  painted  for  the  city  of  Croton. 
Mira,  was  the  Countess  of  Newburgh,  a  beauty  whom  George  Gran- 
ville (Lord  Lansdowne)  celebrated  in  some  very  feeble  verses. 

In  this  little  Epistle  you  will  notice  a  vein  of  pathos  not  common  in  Pope. 
What  is  there  in  the  subject  to  induce  this  feeling  ?  How  are  the  pathetic 
touches  introduced  ?  Is  the  concluding  couplet  in  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the 
poem  'i     Give  reasons  for  your  answer  to  this  last  question. 


EPISTLE     TO    LORD    BURLLNGTON.  39 


EPISTLE    TO    RICHARD    BOYLE,    EARL    OF 
BURLINGTON. 

The  Earl  of  Burlington  was  a  munificent  patron  of  the  Arts,  and  himself  a 
landscape  gardener  and  architect  of  some  pretensions.  This  epistle,  first  pub- 
lished in  1731,  and  afterwards  much  amended,  was  originally  entitled  False 
Taste.  It  is  intended  to  enforce  a  favorite  maxim  of  Pope's,  —  that  all  Art  is 
founded  on  common  sense: 

Still  follow  Sense,  of  ev'ry  Art  the  Soul. 

You  will  have  little  difficulty  in  following  the  thought  if  you  study  carefully  the 
following 

"ARGUMENT   OF  THE   USE   OF   IlICHES. 

The  Vanity  of  Expence  in  People  of  Wealth  and  Qiialitj.  The 
abuse  of  the  word  Taste,  v.  13.  That  the  first  principle  and  founda- 
tion, in  this  as  in  everything  else,  is  Good  Sense,  v.  40.  The  chief 
proof  of  it  is  to  follow  Nature  even  in  works  of  mere  Luxury  and 
Elegance.  Instanced  in  Architecture  and  Gardening,  where  all 
must  be  adapted  to  the  Genius  and  Use  of  the  Place,  and  the  Beau- 
ties not  forced  into  it,  but  resulting  from  it,  v.  50.  How  men  are 
disappointed  in  their  most  expensive  vindertakings,  for  want  of  this 
true  Foundation,  without  which  nothing  can  please  long,  if  at  all ; 
and  the  best  Examples  and  Rules  will  but  be  perverted  into  some- 
thing burdensome  or  ridiculous,  v.  65,  etc.,  to  92.  A  description  of 
the  false  Taste  of  Magnificence;  the  first  grand  Error  of  which  is 
to  imagine  that  Greatness  consists  in  the  Size  and  Dimension,  in- 
stead of  the  Proportion  and  Harmony  of  the  whole,  v.  97,  and  the 
second,  either  in  joining  together  Parts  incoherent,  or  too  minutely 
resembling,  or  in  the  Repetition  of  the  same  too  frequently,  v.  105, 
etc.  A  word  or  two  of  false  Taste  in  Books,  in  Music,  in  Painting, 
even  in  Preaching  and  Prayer,  and  lastly  in  Entertainments,  v.  133, 
etc.  Yet  Providence  is  justified  in  giving  Wealth  to  be  squandered 
in  this  manner,  since  it  is  dispersed  to  the  Poor  and  Laborious  part 
of  mankind,  v.  169  [recurring  to  what  is  laid  down  in  the  first  book, 
Ep.  II.  and  in  the  Epistle  preceding  this,  v.  159,  etc.].  What  are 
the  proper  Objects  of  Magnificence,  and  a  proper  field  for  the  Ex- 
pence  of  Great  Men,  v.  177,  etc.,  and  finally,  the  Great  and  Public 
Works  which  become  a  Prince,  v.  191,  to  the  end." 

i-io.  Topham.  '  A  gentleman  famous  for  a  judicious  collection 
of  drawings.'  —  Pope.  Pembroke;  probably  the  Earl  of  Pem- 

broke, whose  county  seat  of  Wilton  was  celebrated  for  its  works  of 
art.  Hearne  ;  a  well-known  antiquary.  Mead  ;  Sloane  ;  two 

prominent    physicians :  the  one   famous  for  his  library,  the   other 


40  NOTES    TO    POPE. 


for  his  collection  of  natural  curiosities,  now  in  the  British 
Museum. 

13-22.  Sir  Visto ;  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  for  twent}-  jears  Whig 
Prime  Minister  of  England.  He  made  a  large  foi-tune  in  politics, 
and  lavished  much  of  it  on  his  magnificent  house  and  gardens  at 
Houghton.  Pope  detested  him,  and  never  lost  a  chance  to  satirize 
him.  Ripley  was  an  architect,  a  henchman  of  Walpole's,  and 

built  the  house  at  Houghton.  Bubo,  in  Latin,  means  '  Owl.' 

Here  it  stands  for  Bubb  Doddington  (Lord  Melcombe),  a  close 
friend  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  a  favorite  object  for 
Pope's  satire. 

23-38.  You  show  us  Rome  was  glorious.  '  The  Earl  of  Burlington 
was  then  publishing  the  Designs  of  Inigo  Jones  and  the  Antiquities 
of    Rome  by  Palladio.'  —  Pope.  Palladian.     Andrea    Palladio 

was  an  Italian  architect  who  died  in  15S0.  He  introduced  a  tawdry 
style  of  architecture,  in  which  the  Roman  orders  are  used  not  for 
constructive,  but  for  decorative,  purposes.  Po  any  of  the  public 
buildings  you  are  familiar  with  answer  tc  Pope's  description  in 
these  lines  ?     How  about  those  in  your  own  ♦^'^wn .' 

39-46.  the  seven.  The  Schoolmen's  lis'  of  the  Seven  Sciences 
is  Grammar,  Logic,  Rhetoric,  Music,  ArithuT^tic,  Geometry,  As- 
tronomy. Jones;  Inigo  Jones  (d.  '''^SZ)^  the  most  famous 
English  architect  of  his  day.  Le  Notre  (d.  1700),  the  favorite 
landscape  gardener  of  Louis  XIV.  He  laid  out  the  grounds  at  ^'er- 
sailles ;  also  St.  James'  and  Greenwich  Parks. 

47-64.  '  All  the  three  i-ules  of  gardening  are  reducible  to  three 
heads  :  the  contrasts,  the  management  of  surprises,  and  the  conceal- 
ment of  the  bounds.'  —  Pope. 

65-70.  Stowe;  Lord  Cobham's  country  seat  in  Buckinghamshire. 
'  Though  some  of  the  buildings  .  .  .  are  far  from  beautiful, 
yet  the  rich  landscapes  occasioned  by  the  multiplicity  of  temples 
and  obelisks  and  the  various  pictures  that  present  themselves  as 
we  shift  our  situation  occasion  surprise  and  pleasure,  sometimes 
recalling  Albano's  landscapes  to  our  mind,  and  oftener  to  our  fancy 
the  idolatrous  and  luxuriant  vales  of  Daphne  and  Tempe.'  — 
Horace  Walpole. 

71-78.     Versailles;  see  note  on  '  Le  N6tre,' line  46.  Nero's 

terraces;    see  Brewer,  article   'Golden   House.'  Cobham ;    see 

note  on  '  Stowe,'  line  70.  cut  wide  views.     '  This  was  done  in 

Hertfordshire  by  a  wealthy  citizen  at  the  expense  of  above  £5,000, 
by  which  means  (merely  to  overlook  a  dead  plain)  he  let  in  the 
north  wind  upon  his  house  and  pasture,  which  were  before  adorned 
and  defended  by  beautiful  woods.'  —  Pope.     Samuel  Clarke.  D.J > 


EPISTLE    TO   LORD   BURLINGTON.  4 J 

was  a  favorite  of  G^ieen  Caroline's,  who  made  him  one  of  her 
chaplains,  and  after  his  death  (1729)  had  his  bust  placed  in  the 
Hermitage.  This  was  a  famous  grotto  which  the  Qi'een  had 
constructed  in  Richmond  Gardens  in  the  summer  of  1735.  She 
called  it  "Merlin's  Cave,"  and  filled  it  with  figures  of  the  wizard 
and  his  votaries,  copied  from  members  of  her  court.  Pope  here 
implies  that  there  was  a  grotesque  incongruity  between  a  grotto 
and  the  likeness  of  an  assiduous  courtier  like  Dr.  Clarke. 

79-88.  quincunx;  espaliers;  parterres.  All  these  words  nave 
interesting  etymologies.  supports;  'here  used  in  the  technical 
sense,  signifying  the  art  by  which  objects  are  made  in  a  picture  to 
assume  their  proper  relative  proportions.'  —  E.  and  C.'s  Pope, 
iii.    178. 

89-98.  Dryads;  CI.  Myths,  §  47  (2)  and  §  121.  In  line  95  the 
construction  is  elliptical :  '  Having  destroyed  his  father's  work,  he 
views,'  etc.  The  boundless  Gi-een  is  condemned  as  monotonous : 
the  flourished  Carpet  as  cramped  and  stiff  in  design.  In  the  parks 
of  some  of  our  large  cities  you  can  see  these  '  flourished  carpets.' 

99-112.  Timon.  Pope's  enemies  declared  that  he  had  once  received 
a  present  of  £500  from  the  Duke  of  Chandos,  and  that  in  Timon 
he  held  up  liis  benefactor  to  ridicule.  Both  these  charges  Pope 
hotly  and — as  the  evidence  shows  —  truthfully  denied.  Pope's 
note  on  lines  99-16S  explains  that  '  This  description  is  intended  to 
comprise  the  principles  of  a  false  taste  of  [for]  magnificence,  and 
to  exemplify  what  was  said  before,  that  nothing  but  good  sense  can 
attain  it.'  Brobdignag;  the  land  of  giants  :  familiar  to  readers 

of  Gulliver's  Travels,  which  was  published  five  years  before  the  first 
edition  of  this  Epistle. 

113-126.  Amphitrite  ;  CI.  Myths,  §  52.  Notice  how  the  ludicrous 
effects  in  this  famous  passage  are  produced  by  the  juxtaposition  of 
things  incongruous. 

127-140.  Aldus;  Aldo  Manuzio  (whence  Aldine),  a  famous 
Venetian  printer  of  the    i6th   Century.  De   Sueil;  a  Parisian 

binder.  Locke.     His  famous  Essay  on  the  Human  Understand- 

ing had  been  published  some  forty  years  when  this  Epistle  came 
out. 

141-150.  '  Verrio  (Antonio)  painted  many  ceilings,  etc.,  at  Wind- 
sor, Hampton  Court,  etc.,  and  Laguerre  at  Blenheim  Castle  and 
other  places.'  —  Pope. 

151-168.  Tritons.  See  note  on  '  Herald  of  the  Sea,'  Lycidas  89. 
Sancho's  dread  doctor.  See  Don  Qiiixote,  Part  ii.  Book  iii.  Chap- 
ter 47.  God  Bless  the  King.  The  English  National  Air,  often 
played  at  the  close  of  musical  and  theatrical  entertainments. 


42  NOTES    TO    POPE. 

169-180,  Ceres.  CI.  Myths,  §  45.  Bathurst.  Allen  Apslev. 
Lord  Bathurst,  'a  man  of  learning,  courtesy  and  feeling'  (Sterne). 
to  whom  Pope  addressed  his  Third  Epistle. 

181-204.     Jones;  see  line  46  and  note.  Palladio;  see  note  on 

'  Palladian,'  line  37.  Vitruvius;  see  note  on  Dryden's  Epistle  to 
Congreve,  line  15.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 

a  more  artistic  conclusion  to  an  Epistle  of  this  nature,  or  one  that 
holds  up  a  more  admirable  ideal.  It  is  not  unworth}' to  be  compared 
with  those  noble  lines  in  which  Vergil  interprets  the  destiny  of  Rome  •• 

Tu  regere  imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento ; 
Hae  tibi  erunt  artes;  pacisque  imponere  morem, 
Parcere  subiectis,  et  debellare  superbos. 

yEneid  vi.  851-853. 

Dryden's  rendering  of  this  has  evidently  suggested  Pope's  con- 
cluding line. 

But  Rome,  'tis  thine  alone  with  awful  sway, 
To  rule  mankind  and  make  the  world  obey, 
Disposing  peace  and  war  thy  own  majestic  way. 
To  tame  the  proud,  the  fettered  slave  to  free  — 
These  are  imperial  arts  and  worthy  thee! 

EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS. 

This  Epistle  (first  published  in  1737)  is  imitated  from  Horace's  Epistles 
ii.  I.  This  you  should  read,  if  not  in  the  original  at  least  in  Conington's 
translation.  The  King's  name  was  George  Augustus.  Physical  bravery 
seems  to  have  been  his  only  redeeming  virtue ;  in  all  other  respects  he  was 
a  thoroughly  contemptible  creature,  as  you  may  read  in  Thackeray's  Four 
Georges.  The  portions  of  the  Epistle  addressed  directly  to  him  are  couched  in 
a  vein  of  subtle  irony.  Warton  says  that  the  irony  was  so  artfully  concealed 
that '  some  of  the  highest  rank  in  the  Court '  mistook  it  for  serious  praise  ( I)  ; 
hut  this  seems  hardly  credible. 

1-6.  open  all  the  Main,  seems  to  be  used  in  a  double  sense  . 
(i)  You  open  all  the  sea  to  English  trade;  (2)  you  leave  the  sea 
open  to  the  Spaniards.  In  the  year  this  epistle  was  published,  there 
was  great  excitement  in  England  over  the  'right  of  search'  which 
Spain  claimed  to  exercise  and  did  exercise  over  English  vessels. 
When  Spain  declined  and  when  England  became  the  leading  naval 
power  of  the  world,  she  claimed  for  herself  this  same  '  right  of 
search'  against  which  she  had  formerly  so  vigorously  protested. 
The  connection  between  this  claim  and  the  war  of  1S12  is  too  well 
known  to  need  elaboration  here.  chief  in  Arms,  abroad  defend; 

referring  to  the  King's  desire  to  command  the  army  in  person  and  to 
his  repeated  absences  in  his  beloved  Hanover.  Morals,  Arts  and 


EPISTLE     TO    AUGUSTUS.  43 

Laws.    George  II.  had  no  morals,  he  cared  nothing  for  what  he  called 
'  Bainting  and  Boetrj,'  and  he  exercised  no  influence  on  legislation. 
7-22.     Edward  =  Edward  III.  Henry  =  Henrj  V.  Alfred  = 

Alfred  the  Great.  to  find,  etc.  =  at  finding  how  unwilling  are 

base  mankind  to  be  grateful.  Alcides  =  Hercules,  the  grand- 

son of   Alcaeus.     CI.  Myths,   §    139-143.     The  diction  and  the  im- 
agery of  lines   19-22  could  hardly  be  improved. 

23-42.  Skelton;  died  in  1529.  He  was  a  favorite  of  King  Henry 
VIII.  Erasmus  thought  better  of  him  than  Pope  did,  and  was  cer- 
tainly a  more  competent  judge.  Heads  of  Houses.  At  Oxford 
and  Cambridge,  what  we  would  call  the  President  of  a  College  is 
sometimes  denominated  the  Head  of  a  House.  He  is  generally  a 
clergyman.  Christ's  Kirk  o'  the  Green;  a  ballad  of  low  life  by 
King  James  I.  of  Scotland.  the  Devil.  '  The  Devil  Tavern, 
where  Ben  Jonson  held  his  poetical  Club.'  — Pope.  Lines  37-42 
are  in  illustration  of  35  and  36.  From  this  point  to  the  end  of  138, 
the  argument  is  intended  to  ridicule  that  unreasoning  public  taste 
which  belittles  the  literature  of  its  own  day  while  it  extols  that  of 
the  past.  Perhaps  Pope  '  felt  in  his  bones '  that  the  literary  sceptre 
which  he  had  received  from  Dryden,  and  which  he  had  so  long 
swayed,  was  about  to  pass  from  him  to  a  school  of  Romantic  poets 
whose  precursor  was  Thomson.  If  this  be  so,  while  we  may  not 
sympathize  with  his  regret,  we  cannot  help  admiring  the  sharpness 
of  his  sarcasm,  the  brilliancj-  of  his  wit  and  the  extraordinary  acute- 
ness  of  his  literary  judgments. 

43-68.  Courtesy  of  England ;  a  legal  phrase,  applied  to  the 
tenure  bv  which  a  widower  holds  the  property  of  his  deceased  wife. 
The  application  here  will  be :  '  We  will  allow  that  such  a  poet  as 
you  describe  may,  by  courtesy,  pass  for  a  classic,  though  he  has 
not  a  full  right  to  do  so.'  the  rule  that  made  the  Horse-tail 

bare.  The  word  'rule'  in  this  expression  seems  based  upon  a  mis- 
interpretation of  lines  45-46  of  the  Horatian  Epistle  from  which  this 
Epistle  is  imitated.  In  Horace,  the  plucking  out  single  hairs  from 
a  horse's  tail  is  used  for  illustration  just  as  Pope  uses  it  in  line  64; 
Pope's  '  I'ule'  is  Hoi"ace's  '  ratione  mentis  acervi'  (mentioned  in  his 
line  47),  a  logical  puzzle  better  known  under  its  Greek  name  of 
Sorites.  For  etymology  and  explanation  of  this,  consult  an  un- 
abridged dictionary.  Stowe ;  author  of  'Annals  of  This  King- 
dom from  the  Time  of  the  Ancient  Britons  to  His  Own '  [1600]. 

69-78.  Shakespear.  '  Shakespear  and  Ben  Jonson  may  truly  be 
said  not  much  to  have  thought  [5/c]  of  this  Immortality,  the  one 
in  many  pieces  composed  in  haste  for  the  stage :  the  other  in  his 
latter  works  in  general,  which  Dryden  called  his  Dotages.'  —  Pope. 


44  NOTES    TO    POPE. 

Cowley,  who  died  the  year  Paradise  Lost  was  published,  was  consid- 
ered by  his  contemporaries  the  greatest  poet  of  his  day.  His  Pindaric 
Odes  do  not  remind  one  of  Pindar  in  any  way,  and  his  Epic  (the 
Davideis)  would  hardly  be  considered  a  compliment  by  so  good  a 
poet  as  David.     Pope  has  an  imitation  of  Cowley  called  The  Garden. 

79-88.  '  .  .  .  the  whole  paragraph  has  a  mixture  of  Irony,  and 
must  not  altogether  be  taken  for  Horace's  own  judgment,  only  the 
common  chat  of  the  pretenders  to  criticism ;  in  some  things  right, 
in  others  wrong.   .   .   .'  —  Pope.  Beaumont's  judgment.     Of 

the  fifty-two  plays  attributed  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  less  than 
one-third  are  known  to  show  traces  of  Beaumont's  hand.  See  note 
on  Fletcher  in  the  Epistle  to  Congreve,  line  20.  Shadwell  hasty. 

Warburton  tells  us  that  this  line  (from  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester) 
refers  not  to  the  differing  abilities  of  Shadwell  and  of  Wycherley,  but 
to  the  rate  at  which  they  produced  plays.  For  Shadwell,  see  note 
on  Epistle  to  Congreve,  line  4S.  Southern;  Rowe ;  dramatists, 

contemporary  with  Pope.  Haywood ;  Jolm  Heywood  died  the 

year  after  Shakespeare  was  born.  His  '  Interludes  '  show  the  transi- 
tion from  the  Moralities  to  the  regular  play.  Gibber;  Colley 
Cibber,  actor,  play-Avright,  Poet  Laureate;  immortalized  in  1743, 
when  formally  proclaimed  by  Pope  as  the  hero  of  the  Dunciad. 

8g-io6.  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle  (1575)  was  supposed,  in  the 
time  of  Pope,  to  be  the  oldest  English  comedy.  It  is  now  known 
that    Ralpli    Roister    Doister   goes    back   as    far   as    1566.  the 

Careless  Husband  (1704).  Though  Cibber's  masterpiece,  this  is 
certainly  a  dull  play,  lacking  action  and  distinctness  of  charac- 
terization. Spenser,  Sydney,  Milton.  As  your  acquaintance  with 
these  writers  grows  more  extended  you  will  recognize  the  justness 
of  Pope's  strictures.  Bentley  (d.  1742),  the  great  Greek  scholar, 

made  the  mistake  of  trying  to  edit  Milton  on  the  same  critical  prin- 
ciples that  he  had  so  successfully  applied  to  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris. 
He  included  within  brackets  [hooks]  all  lines  that  seemed  to  him 
spurious.  The  result  was  an  edition  of  Milton  scarcely  less  deplor- 
able than  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  edition  of  the  Prophecies  of  Daniel, 
or  than  Professor  Tyndall's  discourses  on  Irish  Politics.  Nc.  siifor 
supra  crepidam.  th'  affected  fool;   Lord  Hervey,  the  friend  of 

Queen  Caroline.     This  sarcasm  is  based  upon  his  lines : 

All  that  I  learned  from  Dr.  Friend  at  school 
By  Gradus,  Lexicon,  or  Grammar-rule 
Has  quite  deserted  this  poor  John-Trot-head, 
And  left  plain  native  English  in  its  stead. 
107-118.     Sprat;     'A    worse    Cowley.' — Pope    {apitd    Spence). 
Carew;  Sedley;  each  a  man  of   one  song.     To  the  former  belongs 


EPISTLE     TO    AUGUSTUS.  45 

*  He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek ; '  to  the  latter,  'Ah,  Chloris,  could  1 
now  but  sit.  As  unconcern'd.     .     .     .     ' 

119-138.  If  I  but  ask,  etc.  Pope's  Edition  of  Shakespeare  (173 1) 
had  been  severely  criticised  by  Theobald.  Betterton  (d.  1710) 

was  for  many  years  the  leading  actor  of  the  English  stage,  —  and 
this  in  spite  of  his  clumsy  figure.  Booth;  see  line  334.  A 

muster  roll  of  names.  '  An  absurd  custom  of  sevei-al  actors,  to 
pronounce  with  emphasis  the  mere  proper  names  of  Greeks  and 
Romans,  which  (as  they  call  it)  fill  the  mouth  of  the  player.'  — 
Pope,  Merlin ; 

Him  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those  times, 
Merlin,  wlio  knew  the  range  of  all  their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships  and  halls, 
Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry  heavens ; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard.    .    .     . 

Tennyson.     Merlin  and  Vivian,  22-26. 

139-154.  These  lines  sketch  the  growth  of  taste  in  England  from 
the  time  of  Charles  restored  (1660).  Even  in  Horace's  Epistle  the 
connecticn  between  the  different  parts  of  the  ar-gument  (if  so  it  may 
be  called)  is  extremely  loose ;  in  Pope  this  connection  is  often  con- 
spicuous only  by  absence.  All,  by  the  King^s  example,  etc.  '  A 
verse  of  the  Lord  Lansdowne.'  —  Pope.  Newmarket  (near  Cam- 
bridge) ;  famous  for  its  horse-races.  It  was  a  favorite  place  of 
resort  for  Charles  the  Second.  Lely ;  Sir  Peter  Lely  (d.  16S0) 
painted  many  of  the  Court  beauties.  they  taught  the  note  to 
pant.  '  The  Siege  of  Rhodes  by  Sir  William  Davenant,  the  first 
opera  sung  in  England  [1656].'  —  Pope. 

155-160.  These  lines  have  no  logical  connection  either  with  what 
precedes  or  with  what  follows. 

161-180.  The  good  old  times,  when  nobody  wrote,  contrasted 
with  these  degenerate  days,  when  everybody  writes. 

181-188.  Everybody- — ^ except  the  would-be  author  —  realizes  that 
he  must  learn  his  trade  before  he  can  practise  it.  Ward.     '  A 

famous  empiric,  whose  pill  and  drops  had  several  surprising  effects, 
and  were  one  of  the  principal  subjects  of  writing  and  conversation 
at    that    time.' — -Pope.  Radcliff's    Doctors.       The    Radcliff 

(Medical)  Scholarship  at  Oxford  permits  the  holders  to  spend  half 
their  time  in  study  '  in  parts  beyond  sea.'  Ripley.     See  note  on 

Epistle  to  the  Earl  of  Burlington,  line  iS. 

189-200.  In  spite  of  his  mania  for  writing,  the  author  is  a  harm- 
less creature,  the  Folly;  that  is  the  folly  of  writing.  Peter; 
Peter  Walter  (according  to  Bowles)  who  cheated  Mr.  George  Pitt 
w'hen  collecting  his  rents. 


46  NOTES    TO    POPE. 


201-240.  A  commendation  of  poets  as  useful  members  of  society. 
Roscommon.  The  Earl  of  Roscommon  (d.  1684)  was  a  friend  of 
Dryden's.  He  translated  the  Ars  Poetica  of  Horace  and  wrote  an 
Essa}'  on  Translated  Verse.  Pope  speaks  of  hini  in  the  Essay  on 
Criticism  (725-728)  as 

.    .     .     not  more  learned  than  good, 
With  manners  gen'rous  as  his  noble  blood ; 
To  him  the  Art  of  Greece  and  Rome  was  known, 
And  every  author's  merit  but  his  own. 

Swift.  See  Brewer,  articles  '  Drapier's  Letters,'  '  Wood's  Half- 
pence.' Swift's  life  in  Dublin  was  worthy  the  splendid  eulogium 
his  friend  here  bestows  upon  it.  Hopkins  and  Sternhold.     The 

Hopkins  and  Sternhold  version  of  the  Psalms  was  published  with 
the  Book  of  Common  Prayer  in  1562.  The  mention  of  them  as  poets 
is  a  joke  that  can  be  appreciated  only  by  him  whose  youthful  spirit 
has  been  tried  by  the  attempts  of  these  worthy  creatures  to  improve 
upon  the  Hebrew  bards.  Campbell  admirably  says  of  them  that, 
'  with  the  best  intentions  and  worse  taste  [they]  degraded  the  spirit 
of  Hebrew  psalmody  by  flat  and  homely  phraseology,  and,  mistak- 
ing vulgarity  for  simplicity,  turned  into  bathos  what  they  found 
sublime.' 

241-262.  This  account  of  the  origin  and  growth  of  satiric  verse 
is  historically  true  of  Rome,  but  not  of  England.  English  satire  is 
not,  like  Latin  satire,  indigenous,  but  is  formed  upon  foreign 
models.     The  literary  ancestor  of  Dryden  is  Juvenal. 

263-266.  England  conquered  and  made  France  captive  but  once 
—  under  Henry  V.  in  1420  (Treaty  of  Troves).  This  conquest  had 
no  such  effect  on  English  literature  as  is  here  described.  If  Pope 
refers  to  the  victories  of  Marlborough  (1702-9),  he  places  too  late 
the  date  at  which  French  influences  began  to  affect  English  litera- 
ture ;  such  influences  are  easily  visible  during  the  first  decade  after 
the  Restoration  (1660). 

267-281.     The  Progress  of  English  Poetry.  Waller  (d.  1687) 

enjoyed  a  reputation  among  his  contemporaries  that  posterity  has 
failed  to  endorse.  He  was  the  first  17th  Century  poet  to  em- 
ploy the  heroic  couplet  as  his  ordinary  means  of  expression ; 
Dryden  acknowledges  that  he  learned  much  of  the  art  of  versifica- 
tion from  him.  correctness.  De  Qiiincey's  elaborate  exami- 
nation into  Pope's  '  correctness,'  seems  to  follow  a  false  scent  and 
to  lead  to  no  satisfactory  results.  A  modern^  scholar  who  studies 
Pope  carefully  and  sympathetically,  can  hardly  fail  to  agree  with 
Mr.  Courthope  that  the  'correctness'  at  which  Pope  aimed  was 
'  accuracy    of    expression,     propriety    of     design     and     justice    of 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  47 


thought  and  taste.'  Racine   (d.    1699),   the  greatest  of   French 

tragic  writers.  Pope's  exact  is  not  an  exact  characterization. 
'  Realistic '  is  probably  what  he  means.  Of  this  Realism  we  have 
good  examples  in  Racine's  Iphigenie  and  in  his  Phedre.  Cor- 

neille  (d.  16S4),  the  father  of  French  tragedy;  his  noble  iire  burns 
brightest  in  his  Cinna  and  in  his  Horace.  Otway  (d.  1685), 

the  only  great  tragic  writer  of  the  Restoration  period.  His  Venice 
Preserved    is    hardly    inferior    in    pathos    to    Othello.  fluent 

Shakespear.  '  I  remember  the  players  have  often  mentioned  it  as 
an  honor  to  Shakespear,  that,  in  his  writing,  whatsoever  he  penned, 
he  never  blotted  out  a  line.  My  answer  hath  been,  "  Would  he  had 
blotted  out  a  thousand!"' — Ben  Jonson.  Copious  Dryden.  Of 
Drvden's  twenty-seven  plays,  twenty  could  easily  be  spared. 

282-303.  Judgments  on  the  Comedy-Writers  of  Pope's  day. 
Congreve ;  see  notes  on  Dryden's  Epistle  to  Congreve.  If  you 
compare  Witwoud  in  Congreve's  Way  of  the  World  with  Touch- 
stone in  As  You  Like  It,  or  with  the  Clown  in  Twelfth  Night,  you 
will  see  the  difference  between  a  Fool  who  merely  displays  the 
author's  wit  and  one  who  is  as  thoroughl}-  human  as  any  other 
character  in  the  play.  pert,  low  dialogue.     This  criticism  does 

injustice  to  the  sprightly  and  often  not  unrefined  dialogue  of 
Farquhar's  later  and  better  work  — The  Recruiting  Officer  (1706) 
and  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  (1707).  Pope's  only  play,  Three  Hours 
After  Marriage,  failed  dismally;  from  that  fatal  hour  he  seldom 
missed  a  chance  to  sneer  at  the  dramatists  of  his  own  day.  Van  = 
Sir  John  Vanbrugh,  architect  of  Blenheim,  and  author  of  ten  come- 
dies. The  phrase  'wants  grace'  seems  to  condemn,  not  unjustly, 
his  lack  of  moral  fibi-e.  Some  of  Vanbrugh's  plays  are  admirably 
constructed,  so  far  as  plot  and  situation  go.  His  best  work 
(The  Confederacy),  adapted  from  the  French,  has  a  double  motif 
quite  as  diverting  as  that  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  and  pos- 
sesses much  more  verisimilitude.  Astraea;  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn, 
author  of  seventeen  indifferent  plays ;  the  first  Englishwoman  who 
made  a  living  by  her  pen.  Gibber;  see  note  on  The  Careless 
Husband,  line  92.  the  laws  =  the  laws  of  comedy.  poor 
Pinkey;  William  Penkethman,  a  comic  actor.  In  the  Tatler,  No. 
iSS,  we  read,  '  .  .  .  Mr.  Bullock  has  the  more  agreeable  squall, 
and  Mr.  Penkethman  the  more  graceful  shrug ;  Penkethman  devours 
a  cold  chick  with  great  applause ;  Bullock's  talent  lies  chiefly  in 
asparagus.'  See  also  The  Spectator,  No.  370,  for  a  description  of 
Penkethman  in  the  character  of  Don  Choleric  Snap  Shorto  de  Testy. 

304-307.  Condemnation  of  the  public  rage  for  farces  and  spec- 
tacular  plays.       With    this    passage    compare    Spectator,    No.    31. 


48  NOTES    TO    POPE. 


pit.  The  pit  was  originally  an  inclosed  space  where  dog-fights  and 
bear-fights  took  place.  As  the  bear-garden  was  metamorphosed 
into  the  theatre,  the  name  '  pit '  was  retained  for  the  floor  of  the 
house ;  admission  to  this  was  cheap,  and  this  made  it  the  favorite 
resort  of  the  rabble.  As  late  as  twenty  years  ago  the  '  pit '  was 
common  in  London  theatres;  now  it  has  almost  disappeared,  the 
space  formerly  reserved  for  it  being  occupied  by  what  we  call  the 
parquet.  the  Black-joke;  a  popular  tune  of  the  day.  From 

heads  to  ears  and  now  from  ears  to  eyes;  '  From. plays  to  operas 
and  from  operas  to  pantomimes.'  —  Warburton.  Old  Edward's 

Armour.  'The  coronation  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Queen  Ann  Boleyn, 
in  which  the  play-houses  vied  with  each  other  to  represent  all  the 
pomp  of  a  coronation.  In  this  noble  contention  the  armour  of  one 
of  the  kings  of  England  was  borrowed  from  the  Tower  to  dress  the 
champion.'  —  Pope.  Democritus,    according    to    the    legend, 

never  went  abroad  without  laughing  at  the  follies  of  mankind ; 
Ileraclitus,  without  weeping  at  the  same  follies.  Orcas.     'The 

farthest  northern  promontory  of  Scotland,  opposite  to  the  Orcades.' 
—  Pope.  Quia.     After  the  death  of  Betterton,  in  1710,  Qiiin  and 

Booth  became  the  leading  actors  of  the  day.  Booth  retained  his 
popularity  until  his  death  in  1733;  Qiiin  lived  many  years  after  he 
was  superseded  by  Garrick,  whose  first  appearance  in  London,  in 
1742,  stamped  him  as  the  greatest  actor  England  has  ever  seen. 
Oldfield;  Mrs.  Oldfield,  the  comic  actress,  d.  1730.  a  birthday 

suit ;  suit  worn  at  a  Court-ball  in  honor  of  the  King's  birthday. 

338-347.     This  fine  passage  excels  the  original,  thus  rendered  by 
Conington  : 

But  lest  you  think  this  niggard  praise  I  fling 

To  bards  who  soar  where  I  n'er  stretched  a  wing, 

That  .man  I  hold  true  master  of  his  art 

Who  with  fictitious  woes  can  wring  my  heart ; 

Can  rouse  me,  soothe  me,  pierce  me  with  the  thrill 

Of  vain  alarm,  and,  as  by  magic  skill 

Bear  me  to  Thebes,  to  Athens,  where  he  will. 

348-355.     Or  who,  etc.,  i.e.,  If  you  do  not  patronize  us,  how  can  we 
write?  the  Muses  .  .  .  mountain.     See  note  on  Lycidas,   15- 

22.  Merlin's  Cave.       See   note  on    'Clark'   in   the  Epistle  to 

Lord  Burlington,  line  78.  Pope  is  fond  of  making  fun  of  the 
Qiieen's  choice  of  books.  In  his  Imitations  of  Horace's  Epistles, 
ii.  2,  he  writes  . 

Lord!  how  we  strut  through  Merlin's  Cave,  to  see 
No  poets  there  but  Stephen,  you  and  me' 


EPISTLE    TO    AUGUSTUS.  49 

356-375.  if  we  will  recite.  Poets  used  to  recite  before  Augustus, 
never  before  George  II.  Through  following  his  original  too 
closely,  Pope  misses  his  point.  The  indifference  of  George  II.  to 
literature  was  founded  upon  sheer  stupidity, — that  stupidity  against 
which  the  gods  themselves,  as  Schiller  says,  fight  in  vain, 
dubb'd  Historians.  The  office  of  Historiographer  Royal  was 
sometimes  combined  with  that  of  Poet  Laureate.  See  note  on 
Dryden's    Epistle    to    Congreve,    41-48.  Louis  =  Louis    XIV. 

Boileau  (d.  1711),  the  French  critic  whose  Art  of  Poetry  strongly 
influenced  Pope's   Essay  on   Criticism.  Racine;    see   note   on 

line  274. 

376-379.  Some  minister  of  grace;  a  hit  at  Walpole,  who  made 
Gibber  laureate  in  1730.     The  phrase  is  from  Hamlet  i.  4,  39: 

Angels  and  ministers  of  grace,  defend  us ! 

380-389.     Charles  =  Charles  I.  Bernini  (d.  16S0)  ;  an  Italian 

architect  and  sculptor;  his  best  known  work  is  the  colonnade  in 
front  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.     Nassau  =  William  III.  Kneller 

was  court-painter  to  all  the  English  sovereigns  from  Charles  II.  to 
George  I.  See  first  note  on  Pope's  Epistle  to  Jervas.  Blackmore ; 
Sir  Richard  Blackmore,  physician  to  William  III.,  was  knighted  in 
1697.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  very  good  physician,  but  was  certainly 
a  very  poor  poet.  Quarles.     '  The  enormous  popularity  of  Fran- 

cis Qiiarles'  Emblems  and  Enchiridion,  a  popularity  which  has  not 
entirely  ceased  up  to  the  present  day,  accounts  to  some  extent  for 
the  very  unjust  ridicule  which  has  been  lavished  on  him  by  men 
of  letters  of  his  own  and  later  times.  .  .  .  the  silly  antithesis  of 
Pope,  a  writer  who,  great  as  he  was,  was  almost  as  ignorant  of 
literary  history  as  his  model  Boileau,  ought  to  prejudice  no  one, 
and  it  is  strictly  true  that  Quarles'  enormous  volume  hides,  to  some 
extent,  his  merits.' — Saintsbury;  History  of  Elizabethan  Literature, 
377.  No  Lord's  anointed,  but  a  Russian  bear.     There  is    no 

evidence  other  than  Pope's  to  show  that  Jonson  and  Dennis  ever 
made  use  of  such  an  expression.  Perhaps  it  is  merely  intended  as 
a  paraphrase  of  Horace's  '  Boeotum  in  crasso  .  .  .  aere  natum  ' 
('  .     .     .    born  and  nurtured  in  BcEOtian  air ').  Dennis;  John 

Dennis  the  critic  had  many  a  literary  encounter  with  Pope,  in  which 
the  poet  not  seldom  came  out  second  best. 

390-403.  The  corresponding  lines  in  Horace  recount  with  loyal 
pride  the  great  deeds  of  Augustus;  notice  with  what  admirable 
irony  Pope  adapts  them  to  the  ignoble  reign  of  George  II. 
Maeonian  =  Homeric.  Maeonia  was  the  ancient  name  for  Lydia, 
and  according  to  one  legend  was  the  birth-place  of  Homer. 


50  NOTES    TO    POPE. 


404-419.  Eusden;  Poet  Laureate  from  171S-1730.  He  has  the 
honor  of  appearing  among  the  city  poets  in  the  Dunciad,  I.  104. 
Phillips;  Ambrose  Phillips  (d.  1749)  sometimes  known  as  Namby- 
Pamby  Phillips,  appears  several  times  in  the  Dunciad.  He  was  a 
good  Whig;  this  seems  to  be  the  only  explanation  of  the  fact  that 
Addison  and  Steele  considered  him  a  good  poet.  Settle;  El- 

kanah  Settle  (d.  1723)  wrote  Odes  on  the  Lord  Mayor's  Day. 
Dryden  has  pilloried  him  in  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  ii.  412-456: 

Doeg,  though  without  knowing  how  or  why, 
Made  still  a  blundering  kind  of  melody;  — 

The  Third  Look  of  the  Dunciad  is  largely  devoted  to  him. 
Bedlam;  a  well-known  lunatic  asylum  in  London.  During  the 
i8th  Century,  second-hand  bookstores  were  numerous  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Bedlam.  Soho  =  '  Old  Soho,  [which]  had  already  begun 
to  acquire  a  connection  with  old  curiosities.' — E.  and  C.'s  Pope 
iii-  373- 


LIFE    OF   THOMSON.  51 


JAMES    THOMSON. 


James  Thomson  was  born  at  Ednam,  in  the  county  of  Roxburgh,  in  1700  — 
the  year  of  Dryden's  death.  He  studied  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  a 
somewhat  desultory  fashion,  and  in  1725  went  to  seek  his  fortune  in  London. 
Thanl<s  to  influential  friends  and  to  good  letters  of  introduction,  Thomson, 
though  sometimes  pressed  for  money,  seems  to  have  escaped  the  starveling 
period  incident  to  poets.  In  1726  he  published  the  Winter.  Sir  Spencer 
Compton,  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  gave 
Thomson  twenty  guineas ;  the  friendly  exertions  of  Aaron  Hill,  once  manager 
of  Drury  I^ane  Theatre,  and  a  favorable  notice  by  Spence  in  his  Essay  on  the 
Odyssey,  assisted  to  bring  Thomson's  work  prominently  before  the  public.  The 
popularity  which  he  then  attained  he  has  never  lost;  his  occasional  Latinisms, 
his  ponderosities  and  his  mannerisms  are  easily  forgotten  in  the  delight  we  feel 
in  his  keen  observation  of  Nature,  in  his  sympathy  with  all  that  is  charming  in 
her  sights  and  sounds,  in  his  power  of  putting  together  a  landscape  and  bring- 
ing it  vividly  before  us,  and  in  the  melodious  roll  of  his  easy  blank  verse.  The 
Winter  was  published  when  Pope  was  at  the  height  of  his  fame ;  a  greater  con- 
trast than  that  between  him  and  Thomson  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine,  or  a 
more  striking  proof  of  the  intellectual  versatility  of  an  age  that  could  appre- 
ciate them  both.  In  his  Summer,  Spring  and  Autumn,  Thomson  never  quite 
reached  the  level  he  attained  in  the  Winter ;  his  Ode  on  Liberty  and  his  plays 
are  distressing  performances.  In  the  first  canto  of  the  Castle  of  hidolence 
(1746),  written  with  a  sincere  love  of  the  subject,  he  is  at  his  best  again;  its 
dreamy  gorgeousness  reminds  us  of  Spenser  and  foreshadows  Keats. 

Personally,  Thomson  was  a  good-natured,  lazy  creature,  of  indifferent  morals, 
with  a  fondness  for  a  lord  that  would  have  entitled  him  to  the  distinction  of  a 
long  chapter  in  Thackeray's  Book  of  Snobs.  Before  his  death  (1748)  he  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  character  happily  idealized  in  this  flattering 
stanza  by  his  friend,  Lord  Lytteiton : 

A  bard  here  dwelt  more  fat  lliau  bard  beseems; 

Who,  void  of  envyr  g'uile,  and  lust  of  gain, 
On  virtue  still,  and  nature's  pleasing'  themes, 

Pour'd  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain; 

The  world  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain. 
Here  laugh'd  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat; 

Here  quaff'd,  encircled  with  the  joyous  train. 
Oft  moralizing  sage:  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne   cared  to  repeat. 

Castle  of  Indolence,  I.  6S. 


52  NOTES    TO    THOMSON. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  A  conscientious  and  thoroughly  dull  Life  of  Thomson 
by  Sir  Harris  Nicholas  will  be  found  prefixed  to  Little,  Brown  &  Co.'s  edition  of 
Thomson  (Boston,  1865).    For  further  references,  see  Bibliography  on  Pope. 

Text.  —  Child's,  in  the  edition  above  referred  to. 

Criticism.  —  Johnson,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  is  almost  the  earliest  critic 
of  Thomson,  and  there  have  been  few  better. 

Hazlitt,  in  his  Thomson  and  Coivper  {Lectures  on  the  English  Poets),  has 
some  acute  remarks  put  in  his  own  dogmatic  way. 

Christopher  North,  in  A  Few  Words  on  Thomson,  lets  his  sympathy  run  into 
enthusiasm,  sometimes  into  over-praise,  of  a  fellow-countryman.  Incidentally 
he  shows  up  the  absurdity  of  Wordsworth's  criticism  on  Thomson.  North's 
comment  on  the  opening  of  Thomson's  Spring  is,  '  Never  had  a  poem  a  more 
delightful  beginning.'  This  is  in  amusing  contrast  with  Hazlitt,  who  calls  the 
same  opening  '  flimsy,  round-about,  unmeaning.' 

Saintsbury,  in  the  secjDnd  volume  of  Ward's  English  Poets,  has  the  best  short 
criticism  of  Thomson  from  a  modern  point  of  view. 


WINTER. 


1-53.  Capricorn.  The  sun  enters  the  sign  of  Capricorn  (Goat's 
Horn)  on  the  21st  of  December.  The  sign  immediately  preceding 
Capricorn  is  Sagittarius  or  the  Archer,  often  represented  on  celes- 
tial inaps  by  a  Centaur  with  bow  and  arrow.  Following  Capricorn 
comes  Aquarius,  or  the  Water-Bearer,  which  the  sun  enters  about 
the  21st  of  January.  Consult  your  dictionary  under  the  word  '  Zo- 
diac' the  inverted  year;  the  time  of  year  in  which  there  seems 
to  be  neither  growth  nor  life  in  Nature,  but  rather  decay  and  death, 
long,  dark  night.  In  the  latitude  of  Thomson's  birth-place  (about 
55°  3o')>  on  December  21st,  the  sun  sets  at  3.29  P.M.,  and  on  Decem- 
ber 22d  rises  at  8.31  A.M. ;  i.e.,  the  night  is  seventeen  hours  long. 
broad.  What  makes  the  sun  look  'broad'.'  Verify,  from  your 
own  observation,  the  points  in  this  description  of  the  winter  sun. 

54-71.  crop  the  wholesome  root.  This  is  a  decided  anticlimax, 
weakening  instead  of  strengthening  our  impression  of  the  severity 
of  winter.  Genius  of  the  coming  storm.  Coiupare  II  Penseroso 
154  and  Lycidas  1S3.  Fancy;  thus  characterized  by  Milton,  in 

the  Par.  Lost,  v.  103-105. 

.     .    .    of  all  external  thmgs 
Which  the  five  watchful  senses  represent. 
She  forms  imaginations,  aery  shapes. 

For  'Imagination'  see  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  v.  i.  14-17: 


WINTER.  53 


,    .     .    as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  form  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Lowell  gives  an  admirable  concrete  illustration  of  the  difference 
between  Fancy  and  Imagination  when  he  says  that  Ariel  is  a 
creation  of  the  Fancy  and  Prospero  of  the  Imagination. 

72-105.  The  vigor  of  this  description  of  the  rain-storm  is  some- 
what impaired  by  the  poet's  occasional  lapses  into  stilted  phrase- 
ology. What  do  you  think,  for  instance,  of  '  household  feathery 
people'  (87)?  Can  you  imagine  Chaucer  or  Milton  writing  this? 
Compare  the  latter's  description  of  country  sights  and  sounds  in 
L' Allegro,  49-68.  There  you  see  what  Swift  meant  when  he  said 
that  a  good  style  consists  in  proper  words  in  proper  places.  Per- 
haps you  can  find  other  places  in  these  lines  (72-105)  where  you 
can  better  the  phraseology  ? 

223-275.  With  this  description  of  the  snow-storm  compare  the 
beautiful  opening  of  Whittier's  Snow-Bound.  Until  that  was 
written,  there  was  nothing  better  on  the  subject  than  these  lines  of 
Thomson's.  Both  the  Scotchman  and  the  New  Englander  are  able 
to  interest  us  because  their  treatment  is  based  upon  Vision  —  that 
is,  upon  clear  view  and  close  observation.  But  Thoinson  is  far 
inferior  to  Whittier  in  Imagination  and  in  Human  Sympathy. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  Winter  that  can  compare  with  Snow-Bound 
41-61^  and   100-115.  the  laborer  ox  demands  The  fruit  of  all  his 

toils  (239-241).  This  line,  which  has  been  severely  criticised 
(why.''),  is  almost  paralleled  by  Whittier's 

The  oxen  lashed  their  tails  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked. 

In  lines  261-263  the  poet  attributes  to  '  the  bleating  kind '  an  emotion 
of  his  own  which  they  are  incapable  of  feeling;  moreover,  were 
they  in  'despair'  (=  utter  lack  of  hope  or  expectation)  they  would 
not  '  dig,'  but  would  lie  down  and  die.  You  will  find  this  passage 
(223-275)  furnishes  an  excellent  Study  in  Epithet. 

276-321.  In  this  incident  of  the  cottager  lost  in  the  snow  we  have 
a  bit  of  genuine  pathos, — a  recollection,  perhaps,  of  some  tale  that 
Thomson  had  heard  when  a  boy  among  the  Roxburgh  hills.  Deftly 
as  the  touches  are  laid  on,  we  can  hardly,  with  Christopher  North, 
attribute  subliinity  (!)  to  the  poet  who  introduced  them,  nor  can 
we  declare  with  that  enthusiastic  fellow-Scot  that  in  this  description 
not  a  word  could  be  altered  for  the  better.  Such  laudation  argues 
a  provincialism  that  British  critics  have  been  fond  of   pointing  to 


54  NOTES    TO     THOMSON. 

in  the  United  States.  Disastered.     Look  up  the  etymology  ot 

this  word.  shag  =  to  roughen.     This  word  is  not  uncommon 

i.n  Milton  and  Spenser.  In  lines  297-302  the  syntax  is  muddy,  but 
you  can  clarify  it  by  a  careful  study  of  the  punctuation  here  given. 

424-497.  This  enumeration  of  Greek  Worthies  is  an  evident 
imitation  of  II  Penseroso,  85-120.  There  is  always  danger  for  a 
man  of  talent  when  he  tries  to  imitate  a  man  of  genius ;  Thomson's 
thought  seems  diffuse  and  his  diction  pedantic  when  put  beside 
Milton's.  His  characterizations  read  like  articles  from  the  Classical 
Dictionary,  with  which  they  may  profitably  be  compared.  Line  456 
refers  to  Leonidas;  the  haughty  rival  of  464  is  Themistocles. 
The  Theban  pair  =  Epaminondas  and  Pelopidas.  By  comparing 
this  passage  (424-497)  with  the  one  immediately  preceding  (276- 
321)  you  will  perceive  the  difference  between  Poetry  and  Versified 
History.  Thomson's  sense  of  humor  developed  late  in  life  or  he 
might  have  perceived  it  himself. 

691-759.  With  this  description  of  Frost,  compare  that  in  Cowper's 
Winter  Morning  Walk,  104-168.  ethereal  nitre  =  frost.     Nitre 

crystallizes  in  six-sided  prisms.  In  the  East  Indies  it  is  found  on 
the  surface  of  the  ground.     Compare  lines  717-720.  Steamed 

(721).  We  must  not  read  into  this  word  our  modern  and  unpoetic 
notions  of  steam  as  associated  with  intense  heat  and  whirling 
engines.  '  To  steam'  in  Spenser  and  Thomson  means  only  '  to  rise 
in  vapor.'  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  any  correct  sense 
'  steamed '  goes  badly  with  icy  gale  (723).  the  distant  waterfall 

Swells  in  the  breeze  (735-6).  This  admirable  poetic  touch  is  but 
one  of  many  in  this  description  that  it  will  repay  you  to  study  and 
verify,  remembering  that  Poetry  describes  things  as  they  seem, 
Science  as  they  are. 

760-777.  Batavia  (Holland),  so  called  from  the  Batavi,  a  Keltic 
tribe  who  inhabited  the  regions  around  the  mouth  of  the  Rhine  in 
the  time  of  Cfesar. 

988-1023.  This  description  of  the  Thaw  is  quite  as  good  as  that 
of  the  Frost,  —  omitting  Leviathan  and  his  unwieldy  train,  whose 
clumsy  gambols  add  nothing  to  the  horror  of  the  scene.  For  a 
really  poetical  description  of  the  Leviathan,  see  Job  xli.  iS-34. 

1024-1046.  The  transition  is  awkward  from  the  description  of  the 
Thaw  to  the  Concluding  Moral.  Fol'owing  the  effects  of  the  Thaw 
we  should  expect  some  reflections  upon  the  newly  awakened  life  of 
the  Spring,  such,  for  instance,  as  are  introduced  in  1041  ct  sqq. ,' 
instead  of  this  we  are  suddenly  jerked  back  to  Mid-Winter.  'Tis 

done!  What  is  done.^  The  Thaw?  '  No,'  says  the  poet;  '  not  the 
thaw,  but  the  work  of  dread  Winter.'     Then,  in  104 1,  we  are  shot 


WINTER.  55 

back  into  Spring  again.  The  force  of  dislocation  could  no  further 
go.  Disregarding  the  defective  arrangement,  we  must  confess 

that  the  portion  of  the  conclusion  here  given  contains  some  excel- 
lent lines ;  among  these  the  best  seems  to  be, 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquered  year. 

This  is,  perhaps,  as  fine  a  line  as  Thomson  ever  wrote,  and  is  one 
we  may  be  glad  to  remember  him  by.  Peace  be  to  his  ashes !  He 
has  shown  us  that  in  that  iSth  Century,  so  much  abused  for  its 
Materialism,  there  lived  at  least  one  poet  who  was  near  to  Nature's 
heart. 


56  NOTES    TO    JOHNSON. 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 


Born  at  Lichfield,  1709.  His  fatlier  was  a  boolc-seller,  and  in  his  shop  the 
boy  was  able  to  indulge  his  insatiable  desire  for  reading.  From  1728  to  1731 
Johnson  at  Oxford  was  among  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  '  stoically  shut  up, 
silently  enduring  the  incurable,'  as  Carlyle  puts  it.  He  left  without  taking  his 
degree,  and  after  two  unsuccessful  attempts  at  school-teaching  came  to  seek 
his  fortune  in  London,  accompanied  by  his  friend  Garrick  (1737).  The  next 
year  appeared  his  poem,  London,  many  passages  of  which  —  especially  the 
famous  Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed  —  reflect  his  own  bitter 
experiences  as  a  starving  author.  At  this  date,  twenty-four  years  of  literary  hack- 
work were  ahead  of  Johnson,  during  which,  however,  he  managed  to  make  at 
least  one  '  honest  strike  for  fame  '  in  his  poem  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wiskes. 
His  Dictionary,  his  Rambler,  his  Rasselas,  and  his  extraordinary  conversational 
powers  assisted  him  to  rise  to  a  position  of  literary  dictatorship  similar  to  that 
held  in  the  seventeenth  century  by  Dryden.  In  1762  a  small  pension  bestowed 
upon  him  by  George  HL  of  unblessed  memory  relieved  him  from  the  unjust 
ridicule  of  poverty.  During  the  remainder  of  his  life,  he  enjoyed  a  well-earned 
rest,  broken  only  by  the  diversions  of  writing  his  Visit  to  the  Hebrides  and  his 
Lives  of  the  Poets.  On  this  last-named  work,  it  appears  that  Johnson's  reputa- 
tion as  a  prose-writer  will  chiefly  rest. 

Like  to  Achilles  without  his  Homer,  like  to  ^neas  without  his  Vergil,  like  to 
Henry  V.  without  his  Shakespeare  —  such  would  Johnson  have  been  to  us  with- 
out his  Boswell.  From  1763,  when  Boswell  met  Johnson,  till  1784,  when  John- 
son died,  the  daily  walk  and  conversation  of  the  great  man  have  been  preserved 
for  us  in  those  incomparable  sketches  which  are  at  once  the  joy  and  the  despair 
of  all  other  biographers.  To  the  reading  of  Boswell  we  might  apply  Hazlitfs 
description  of  the  reading  of  a  good  comedy  —  it  is  like  keeping  the  best  com- 
pany, where  the  best  things  are  said  and  the  most  amusing  things  happen. 

Friends  —  Garrick,  Burke,  Goldsmith,  Boswell,  Reynolds,  Robertson,  Gib- 
bon, Richardson. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  The  best  edition  of  Boswell  is  that  by  G.  Birbeck  Hill 
(Clarendon  Press,  6  vols.).  The  same  editor  has  also  published  The  Letters 
of  Samuel  Johnson  (excluding  those  published  in  Boswell)  and  a  volume 
entitled  Dr.  Johnson,  His  Friends  and  his  Critics, 

A  large  portion  of  Leslie  Stephen^s  Johnson  (E.  M.  L.)  is  a  condensation  of 
Boswell,  whose  '  best  things '  are  skilfully  selected.  Hawthorne's  Our  Old  Home 
contains  a  charming  account  of  his  visit  to  Lichfield,  Johnson's  birth-place,  and 


THE     VANITY    OF   HUMAN    WISHES.  57 

to  Uttoxeter,  where  Johnson  did  penance  in  the  market-place.  For  the  social 
life  of  the  times,  see  Thackeray'' s  Virginians  and  his  George  III.  in  The  Four 
Georges.     For  the  History,  Green,  Chapter  X.  Sees.  1-2. 

Criticism.  —  The  best  criticism  on  Johnson  has  fortunately  been  brought 
together  within  the  compass  of  a  single  volume  by  Matthew  Arnold.  His 
Johnson's  Chief  Lives  has  appended  to  it  Macaiilay's  and  Carlyle's  Essays  on 
BosivelVs  Johnson.  Macaulay  gives  us  the  man  Johnson  objectively  and 
materially,  Carlyle  gives  us  Johnson  subjectively  and  spiritually.  Not  the  least 
interesting  thing  in  this  book  is  Arnold's  own  preface,  with  his  high  estimate 
of  Johnson  as  a  prose-writer  and  his  Lacustrine  inability  to  see  anything  but 
'  mistaken  poetical  practice  '  in  the  eighteenth  century  poets. 


THE    VANITY    OF    HUMAN    WISHES. 

This  poem  was  published  in  1749  and  is  imitated  from  the  Tenth  Satire  o 
Juvenal  (see  Gilford's  translation) ,  as  is  the  London  from  Juvenal's  Third  Satire. 
The  diction  and  the  constructions  in  the  second  poem  are  more  highly  Latinized 
than  in  the  first ;  the  thought  is  mellower  and  the  tone  more  resigned. 

i-io.  Notice  the  curious  tautology  in  lines  1-2.  Survey  (2), 
Remark  (3),  watch  (4),  and  say  (5)  are  all  infinitives  depending 
upon  Let  (i).     Whitney,  §§  449,  477.  Snares  is  hardly  a  good 

metaphor  with  clouded. 

11-20.  The  clauses  beginning  with  How  in  10  and  13  repeat  the 
construction  of  line  5.  Later  in  the  poem  the  writer  gives  concrete 
illustrations  of  some  of  the  general  propositions  here  advanced. 

21-28.  the  general  massacre  of  gold  =^  the  general  massacre  which 
the  desire  for  wealth  causes.  Wide  wasting  pest !     The  thought 

and  the  phraseology  in  this  passage  are  less  from  Juvenal  than  from 
Vergil,  ^neid  iii.  56-7. 

Quid  non  mortalia  pectora  cogis, 
Auri  sacra  fames  ! 

29-36.  madded,  an  obsolete  form  for  '  maddened.'  In  line  31, 
notice  the  abstractness  of  the  diction.  This  use  of  abstract  terms  is 
so  frequent  in  Johnson  as  to  amount  to  a  mannerism.  Yet  he  can 
write  very  plain  strong  English  when  he  wants  to ;  see  lines  33, 
62,  78,  221.  the  Tow'r  =  the  Tower  of  London,  long  used  as 

a  state  prison. 

37-44.  The  needy  traveller,  serene  and  gay.  Walks  the  wide  heath, 
and  sings  his  toil  away.  A  most  happy  rendering  of  one  of 
Juvenal's  niost  famous  lines  :  '  Cantabit  vacuus  coram  latrone  viator.' 
Increase;  i.e.,  If  you  increase  his  riches  you  destroy  his  peace. 

45-72.     Democritus  ;  notice  the  accent  of  this  word  as  determined 


58  NOTES    TO    JOHNSON. 

bj  the  rhythm.     See  notes  on  Epistle  to  Augustus,  304-337.  mot- 

ley; originally  a  patch-work  dress  of  highly-colored  bits  of  cloth; 
the  costume  of  the  clown  or  pi-ofessional  jester.  As  applied  here  to 
life,  it  implies  a  sneer  as  well  as  a  description.  man  was  of  a 

piece,  that  is,  w^hen  men  were  more  consistent  than  they  are  now. 
Doubtless  the  satirists  of  the  time  of  Democritus  likewise  looked 
back  to  some  Golden  Age  that  existed  only  in  their  imaginations. 
a  new-made  mayor's  unwieldy  state ;  a  reference  to  the  Lord 
Mayor's  Show,  a  civic  parade  that  still  takes  place  annually  in  Lon- 
don on  the  9th  of  November,  when  the  new  Mayor  is  inaugurated. 
Attentive  goes  with  thou  (61).  robes  and  veils  are  subjects  of 

were  (65).  canvass;  not  in  our  modern  (American)  sense  of 

'  to  solicit,'  but  in  the  old  sense  of  '  to  examine,'  literally,  '  to  sift 
through  canvas  '  (bolting-cloth). 

73-82.  On  every  stage  :  on  every  stage  of  the  suppliants'  progress 
to  wealth  and  power.  Love  ends  with  hope :  as  soon  as  their 

hope  of  patronage  is  disappointed,  their  love  for  their  patron  ends. 
Sinking  and  growing  are  the  emphatic  words  in  their  respective  sen- 
tences. 

83-90.  the  painted  face :  the  portrait  of  oiu-  former  hero  and 
patron.  palladium:  CI.  Myths,  p.  305.  better;  this  must 

be  taken  sarcastically.  For  gives  the  reason  for  the  sarcastic 

better :  being  degenerate,  we  are  unable  to  see  heroic  worth  .in  the 
features  where  once  we  found  it.  The  form  distorted  (in  our 

pejorative  imagination)  justifies  us  in  taking  down  thj  picture  of 
him  who  was  once  our  hero  ;  we  detest  what  formerly  we  loved,  and 
indignantly  rid  our  house  of  its  presence.  (I  am  aw-are  that  the  sub- 
jective interpretation  of  this  difficult  passage  is  not  free  from  objec- 
tions, but  an  objective  interpretation  creates  even  more  difficulties,  iv 
seems  to  me,  while  a  mixture  of  the  two  methods  produces  hopeless- 
confusion.) 

gi-gS.  remonstrance  rings.  It  is  difficult  to  surmise  what  period 
of  English  History  Johnson  had  in  mind,  as  the  Tory  party,  of  which 
he  was  a  staunch  adherent,  has  never  been  noted  for  assaults  upon 
aristocratic  and  kingly  powder.  Lines  95  and  96  seem  to  refer  to 
the  premiership  of  Henry  Pelham,  who,  at  the  time  this  satire  was 
written,  had  almost  broken  up  the  Opposition  that  destroyed  Wal- 
pole  by  taking  into  the  Cabinet  the  most  distinguished  members  of 
that  Opposition.  septennial.     Members  of  the  House  of  Com- 

mons hold  office  for  seven  years,  unless  the  Crown  orders  a  dissolu- 
tion and  a  new  election  within  that  time.  This  prerogative  of  the 
Crown  is  now  lodged  practicalTy  in  the  hands  of  the  Prime  Minister, 
full  is  best  taken  as  an  adverb  with  riot  and  rail. 


THE     VANITY    OF   HUMAN    WISHES.  59 

99-120.  Wolsey  in  this  sketch  takes  the  place  of  Juvenal's  Sejanus. 
For  the  latter,  consult  a  History  of  Rome  under  the  years  14-31  A.D. 
For  the  idealized  Wolsey,  see  Shakespeare's  Henry  viii. ;  for 
the  real  Wolsey,  Green,.  Chapter  vi.  Sec.  5.  the  regal  palace; 

Hampton  Court,  ten  miles  west  of  the  city  of  London.  Wolsey's 
arms  are  still  to  be  seen  above  the  clock-tower,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent carved  roof  of  the  hall  was  begun  by  him.  Hampton  Court 
was  the  favorite  residence  of  Cromwell  and  of  William  in. 

121-134.  Villiers :  great  is  hardly  an  appropriate  adjective  for 
George  Villiers,  first  Duke  of  Buckingham,  the  frivolous  and  un- 
principled favorite  of  James  i.  and  Charles  i.  He  was  stabbed  to  the 
heart  by  Felton  in  1628.  Harley,  when  a  member  of  the  Cabi- 

net (1711),  was  stabbed  with  a  pen-knife  by  a  French  refugee  named 
Guiscard.  The  wound  was  not  serious  and  brought  Harley  a  good 
deal  of  cheap  popularity.  Intemperance  rather  than  this  wound 
fixed  disease  on  Harley's  closing  life.  What  Johnson,  in  his  Tory 
fashion,  calls  the  murder  of  Wentworth  (better  known  as  Strafford) 
was  in  reality  a  perfectly  legal  and  richly  deserved  execution  for 
treason    (1641).  Hyde.     Edward  Hyde,    Earl    of    Clarendon, 

Prime  Minister  of  Charles  11.,  was  impeached  in  1667  and  fled  to 
France.  Refusing  to  return  and  stand  his  trial,  he  was  banished  for 
life.  He  has  left  a  History  of  the  Rebellion  and  Civil  Wars  in  Eng- 
land, much  admired  —  by  Tory  writers. 

135-164.  the  gown.  The  cap  and  gown  are  still  worn  by  students 
at  Oxford    and    Cambridge.  Bodley;    Sir  Thomas  Bodley,  an 

Elizabethan  diplomatist  who  founded  the  Bodleian  Library  at 
Oxford.  Bacon's  mansion.  '  There  is  a  tradition  that  the  study  of 
Friar  Bacon,  built  on  an  arch  over  the  bridge,  will  fall  when  a  man 
greater  than  Bacon  shall   pass  under  it.'  —  Johnson.  Novelty 

thy  cell  refrain  =  Novelty  refrain  from  approaching  thy  cell.  So  in 
the  ballad  of  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  (Childs,  v.  222)  : 

.    .     ,    the  whole  train  the  grove  did  refrain 
And  unto  their  caves  they  did  go. 

Lines   153-4  ^'"^  ^  ^i*^  ^^  autobiograph>'.  pause     .     ,     .     from 

learning,  to  be  wise.     Compare  Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall,    143-4; 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

the  patron  and  the  jail  are  placed  in  admirable  juxtaposition.  Some 
six  years  after  writing  this  Satire,  Johnson,  in  his  celebrated  letter 
to  Lord  Chesterfield,  gave  '  noble'  patronage  in  Literature  a  knock- 
down blow  from  which  it  has  never  recovered.  nations     .     ,     , 


60  NOTES    TO    JOHNSON. 

meanly  just.  '  Woe  unto  3'ou,  scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites ! 
because  ve  build  the  tombs  of  the  propliets,  and  garnish  the  sepul- 
chres of  the  righteous,  and  say  :  If  we  had  been  in  the  days  of  our 
fathers,  -sve  would  not  have  been  partakers  with  them  in  the  blood 
of  the  prophets.'     Matt,  xxiii.  29-30.  Lydiat,  who  died  in  1646, 

suffered  persecution  not  because  he  was  a  mathematician,  but 
because  he  was  a  Royalist.  This  is  but  one  instance  of  others  we 
have  noticed,  where  the  good  Doctor  looks  at  history  through  Tory 
spectacles.  Galileo's  experiences  with  the  Inquisition  are  too 

well  known  to  call  for  recital  here.     He  died  in  1642. 

165-174.  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterburj'  and  Chief  Persecutor 
of  the  Puritans,  was  executed  by  order  of  the  House  of  Commons 
in  1645.  Macaulay,  as  strong  a  Whig  as  Johnson  was  a  Tory,  also 
disapproved  of  the  execution  of  Laud,  but  for  not  exactly  the  same 
reasons.  '  The  severest  punishment  which  the  two  Houses  could 
have  inflicted  on  him  would  have  been  to  set  him  at  liberty,  and 
send  him  to  Oxford.  There  he  might  have  stayed,  tortured  by  his  own 
diabolical  temper  —  hungering  for  Puritans  to  pillory  and  mangle; 
plaguing  the  Cavaliers,  for  want  of  somebody  else  to  plague,  with 
his  peevishness  and  absurdity ;  performing  grimaces  and  antics 
in  the  Cathedral ;  continuing  that  incomparable  Diary,  which  we 
never  see  without  forgetting  the  vices  of  his  heart  in  the  imbecility 
of  his  intellect,  minuting  down  his  dreams,  counting  the  drops  of 
blood  which  fell  from  his  nose,  watching  the  direction  of  the  salt, 
and  listening  for  the  notes  of  the  screech-owls.  Contemptuous 
mercy  was  the  only  vengeance  which  it  became  the  Parliament  to 
take  on  such  a  ridiculous  old  bigot.'  —  Essay  on  Hallam. 

175-igo.  the  rapid  Greek :  Alexander,  whose  Asiatic  conquests 
were  completed  between  334  and  323  B.C.  This  praise,  etc.,  = 

The  desire  for  praise  has  such  power  over  men  that  virtue  [  valor  .-"J 
can  scarce  incite  them  to  arduous  deeds  till  fame  lends  her  aid. 
everlasting  debt.  When  Johnson  wrote  this  satire,  the  English 
National  Debt  was  about  £78,000,000.  In  i860,  our  National  Debt 
was  $64,842,287.     In  1S65  (August  31)  it  was  $2,844,649,626. 

191-222.  Swedish  Charles;  Charles  XII.  (1697-1718).  His  life  has 
been  written  by  Voltaire.  Juvenal  uses  Hannibal  as  his  example  of 
the  emptiness  of    military  glory.  adamant;    one  of  the  finest 

words  in  our  language.     Look  up  the  etymology.  Surrounding 

kings;  Peter  the  Great  (Russia),  Augustus  (Saxony  and  Poland), 
Frederick    iv.    (Denmark).  one    capitulate;    Frederick  iv.   in 

1700.  one  resign;  Augustus.     In  1706,  Charles  compelled  him 

to  resign  his  claim  to  the  Polish  crown  in  favor  of  Stanislas  Lesc- 
zinski.  Moscow's  walls.     After  his  defeat  at  Smolensk  (1708) 


THE     VANITY    OF   HUMAN    WISHES.  61 

Peter  the  Great  made  overtures  for  peace.  Charles  is  said  to  have 
replied,  '  I  will  treat  with  the  Czar  at  Moscow.'  Pultowa,  where 

Charles  was  totally  defeated,  July  8,  1709.  distant  lands.  Charles 
fled  to  Turkey  and  succeeded  in  einbroiling  that  country  in  a  war 
with  Russia.     In   17 14  he  returned  to  Sweden.  petty  fortress  : 

Frederickshall  in  Norway.  dubious  hand.     It   was    long    dis- 

puted whether  the  fatal  bullet  came  from  an  enemy  in  the  front  or  a 
traitor  in  the  rear.  In  1859  it  was  proved  by  an  examination  of  the 
King's  skull  that  he  had  been  shot  from  the  front.  It  would  be 
well  for  you  to  commit  to  memory  this  fine  passage  (191-222),  of 
which  lines  196  and  221-222  have  become  household  words.  If  you 
compare  this  characterization  of  Charles  xii.  with  that  of  Villiers 
(Absalom  and  Achitophel,  I.  544-56S)  you  will  see  that  where  John- 
son draws  a  type,  Dryden  paints  a  man. 

223-240.  Persia's  tyrant;  Xerxes.  See  a  History  of  Greece,  under 
the  years  486-479  B.C.,  and  compare  the  third  and  fourth  stanzas 
of  Byron's  Isles  of  Greece  (p.  152  of  this  book). 

241-254.  The  bold  Bavarian;  Charles  Albert,  Elector  of  Bavaria; 
elected  Emperor  of  Germany  in  1742  under  the  title  of  Charles  vii. 
Caesarean  =  Imperial.  '  Kaiser '  and  '  Czar '  are  both  derived  from 
'  Csesar.'  fair  Austria;  Maria  Theresa,  Archduchess  of  Austria. 

Upon  the  death  of  her  father  Charles  vi.  in  1740,  she  was  treach- 
erously attacked  by  Prussia,  France,  Bavaria  and  Saxony.  Her 
people  rallied  around  her  with  enthusiasm;  after  an  heroic  resist- 
ance, peace  was  made  with  Prussia,  and  the  Bavarian  troops,  at  first 
successful,  were  driven  back.  The  Austrian  cavalry,  composed 
largely  of  Croats  and  Hussars,  over-ran  Bavaria,  and  the  unlucky 
Chai-les,  deserted  by  his  allies  and  a  prey  to  disappointed  ambition, 
died  after  an  inglorious  Kaisership  of  only  three  years.  For  a 
lively  picture  of  these  events,  see  the  opening  pages  of  Macaulay's 
Essay  on  Frederick  the  Great. 

255-282.  This  is  one  side  of  Old  Age,  and  admirably  drawn. 
Compare  As  You  Like  It,  ii.  6  (near  the  end)  : 

The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose  and  pouch  on  side; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big,  manly  voice, 
Turned  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 
In  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 


(J2  NOTES    TO    JOHNSON. 

But  there  is  another  and  a  pleasanter  side  to  Old  Age.  See  Thack- 
eray's touching  description  of  tlie  last  days  of  Colonel  Newcome 
(The  Newcomes,  Chapters  lxxv.  andLxxx.);  also  the  character 
of  Adam  in  As  You  Like  It. 

283-290.  The  Miser;  a  favorite  theme  with  great  descriptive 
writers.  Well-known  types  are  Golden  Trapbois  in  Scott's  Fortunes 
of  Nigel,  Harpagon  in  Moliere's  L'Avare  and  Pere  Grandet  in  Bal- 
zac's Eugenie  Grandet. 

291-310.     prime;  the  first  part,  the  spring  of  life.  Superflu- 

ous lags  the  vet'ran  on  the  stage ;  a  famous  line  —  and  famous 
because  the  poet  has  herein  expressed,  in  striking  phrase,  an  obser- 
vation on  life  that  we  instantly  recognize  as  true. 

311-318.  Lydia's  monarch;  Crcesus,  renowned  for  his  wealth. 
The  story  goes  that  Croesus,  exhibiting  his  treasures  to  Solon, 
asked  the  sage  if  he  did  not  consider  the  owner  of  such  treasures  a 
happy  man.  To  this  Solon  replied,  '  Count  no  man  happy  until  he 
is  dead.'      This  story  is    probably  apocryphal.  Marlb'rough 

died  in  1722.  Johnson  seems  to  have  drawn  upon  his  imagination 
and  his  Tory  prejudice  for  this  line.  The  comparison  would  be 
extremely  effective  did  it  not  lack  the  first  condition  of  effective 
comparison  —  Truth.  Swift  was    hopelessly  insane"  for    some 

five  years  before  his  death    (1745). 

343-368.  The  poet  has  now  enumerated  some  of  the  chief  bless- 
ings that  men  long  for  in  this  troublous  world  —  Wealth,  Political 
Power,  Literary  Fame,  Military  Glory,  Long  Life,  Beauty.  He  has 
shown  —  often  by  concrete  examples  —  that  these  so-called  bless- 
ings are  more  often  curses  in  disguise.  Is  there  then  nothing  for 
which  we  may  safely  petition  heaven?  'Yes,'  he  replies,  'but 
very  little.'  Lines  360-368  tell  us  what  this  little  is.  The}-  contain 
the  sum  and  substance  of  that  somewhat  melancholy  but  thoroughly 
sincere  philosophy  by  which  Johnson  bravely  lived  his  own  life, — 
a  life  not  unacquainted  with  grief. 


LIFE   AND   BIBLIOGRAPHY.  63 


THOMAS    GRAY. 


Born  in  London,  1716;  educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge  with  Horace  Wal- 
pole.  From  boyhood  his  health  was  dehcate  and  he  was  subject  to  periods  of 
gloom  and  depression.  Something  more  than  two  years  (1739-1741)  spent  in 
France  and  Italy  brightened  his  mental  tone  and  quickened  his  artistic  sensi- 
bilities. His  Ode  to  Spring  (written  in  1742),  breaking  away  from  the 
conventional  eighteenth  century  forms  —  the  heroic  couplet  and  the  rimed 
octo-syllabic  —  marks  the  beginning  of  the  return  to  freer  lyrical  movements. 
For  many  years  he  resided  at  Cambridge ;  his  opinion  of  life  at  his  alma  mater 
may  be  gathered  from  the  opening  of  his  Hymn  to  Ignorance  : 

Hail,  horrors,  hail!  ye  ever  gloomy  bowers     .     .     . 
Ah,  Ignorance!  soft  salutary  power! 
Prostrate  with  filial  reverence  I  adore. 

Perhaps  to  escape  these  horrors  he  plunged  into  a  severe  and  prolonged 
course  of  study  which  made  him  one  of  the  most  learned  men  and  most  accom- 
plished critics  in  Europe.  To  the  development  of  this  critical  faculty  may  be 
partly  attributed  the  small  amount  of  Gray's  verse  —  for  the  critical  and  the  cre- 
ative faculties  seem  mutually  destructive.  His  studies  in  Norse  poetry  opened 
up  a  field  that  is  being  vigorously  worked  to-day,  while  of  the  Elegy,  did  not 
Wolfe  say,  on  the  eve  of  Quebec,  '  I  would  prefer  being  the  author  of  that  poem 
to  the  glory  of  beating  the  French  to-morrow '  ?  In  1757  Gray  had  the  good 
sense  to  decline  the  laureateship.  In  1768  he  was  appointed  to  the  sinecure 
Professorship  of  Modern  Literature  and  Modern  Languages  at  Cambridge,  and 
never  delivered  any  lectures.    Three  years  later  he  died. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Gray  is  best  studied  in  G(7«d?V  4-vol.  edition  (London, 
1884),  which  gives  the  Poems,  Journals,  Essays,  Letters,  and  Notes  on  Aris- 
tophanes and  Plato.  The  Journal  in  the  Lakes  (in  Vol.  I.)  is  especially  valuable 
as  showing  that  Gray  exploited  the  Lake  Country  before  Wordsworth  was  born. 
The  only  good  Life  of  Gray  is  also  by  Gosse  (E.  M.  L.). 

Criticism.  —  Matthew  Arnold :  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series  ;  Thomas 
Gray.  Attributes  Gray's  scantiness  of  production  to  the  fact  that  he  lived  in  an 
age  unfavorable  to  'genuine  poetry'  —  that  is,  poetry  '  conceived  and  composed 
in  the  soul'  as  distinguished  from  poetry  composed  in  the  'wits  '  (  ! ). 

Lowell :  Latest  Literary  Essays  and  Addresses  :  Gray.  Takes  a  much  wider 
range  than  Arnold's  Essay  and  is  not  tied  to  a  theory.  Classes  Gray  with  Dry- 
den  as  a  'well  of  English  undefiled.'     Written  in  Lowell's  best  manner. 


64  NOTES    TO    GRAY. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 

This  poem,  which  was  seven  years  a-making,  was  published  in  1751  — within 
two  years  of  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes.  Johnson,  a  severe  and  unsympa- 
thetic critic  of  Gray,  confesses  tliat  '  The  "  Churchyard,"  abounds  with  images 
which  find  a  mirror  in  every  mind,  and  with  sentiments  to  which  every  bosom 
returns  an  echo."  This  is  undoubtedly  the  chief  cause  of  the  wide-spread  pop- 
ularity of  this  poem ;  a  secondary  cause  is  the  exquisite  felicity  of  the  diction. 
Perhaps  the  two  may  be  summed  up  in  Pope's  line : 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed. 

While  it  would  be  easy  to  point  to  exemplars  for  many  of  Gray's  famous  lines, 
the  fact  remains  that  the  thought  lives,  not  in  other  men's  phrases,  but  in  his. 
In  this  lies  his  triumph  as  an  artist. 

1-12.  The  curfew.  See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  74-S4.  The  second 
stanza  owes  something,  perhaps,  to  the  third  stanza  of  Collins'  Ode 
To  Evening  : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

The  moping  o^\.  Compare  Tennyson's  two  songs,  The  Owl. 
reign  =  realm. 

13-20.  Notice  the  love  of  Nature,  which  we  saw  in  Thomson, 
reappearing  here.  From  this  time  on,  we  shall  find  it  becoming  more 
and  more  prominent  in  English  verse. 

21-24.  Compare  the  third  stanza  of  Burns'  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night. 

25-56.     storied  urn;  an  urn  on  which  a  storv  is  carved.  an- 

imated =  life-like.  provoke  =  call  forth,  arouse. 

57-60.  Hampden.  John  Hampden,  a  wealthy  country  gentleman, 
refused  to  pay  the  illegal  ship-money  tax  levied  by  Charles  i.  He 
was  the  first  cousin  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and,  so  far  as  we  can  judge, 
a  man  of  scarcely  less  ability  than  the  Protector  himself.  He  was 
wounded  in  a  skirinish  at  Chalgrove  Field  in  June,  1643,  and  died 
w^ithin  a  few  days.  His  death  w^as  a  national  calamity.  Since  the 
publication  of  Carlyle's  Oliver  Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches 
(1845)  no  intelligent  person  has  ventured  to  uphold  the  view  of 
Cromwell  approved  by  Gray. 

61-92.  madding  =  raging,  distracted.  Compare  '  madded,' Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes,  line  30.  uncouth.     See  note  on  L'Allegro,  5. 

rimes.       See    note    on     Lycidas     11.  elegy.     The    eighteenth 

century   was    much    given  to  elegy   and    epitaph    writing  —  as    the 


THE    BARD.  65 


disfigured  walls  of  Westminster  Abbey  testify.  to  dumb  For- 

getfulness  seems  best  taken  as  indirect  object  with  resigned.  In 
lines  89-92,  some  critics  find  a  regular  climax  in  thought.  Do  you 
agree  with  this  interpretation,  or  do  you  find  it  far-fetched?  John- 
son finely  said  of  lines  77-92  :  '  Had  Gray  written  often  thus,  it  had 
been  vain  to  blame  and  useless  to  praise  him.' 

93-128.     chance  =  perchance.  Contemplation;     compare    II 

Penseroso,  51-54-  wan  may  mean  either  '  pale'  or  '  sad.'     In 

Old  English  it  generally  means  '  dark '  or  '  gloomy.'  forlorn. 

The  prefix  in  this  word  is  merely  intensive;  in  '  forbid'  it  is  nega- 
tive. 'Lorn'  is  from  the  Old  English  '  leosan,'  to  lose;  compare 
the  German  '  verloren.'  for  thou  canst  read.     Reading  was  not 

a  common  accomplishment  in  eighteenth  century  England,  nor  is 
it  as  common  in  the  United  States  to-day  as  it  is  in  Prussia  and 
Saxony.  lay  is  generally  associated   with    the  idea    of   music 

and  seems  an  inappropriate  word  for  an  Epitaph.  In  Gray's  man- 
uscript, after  line  116,  came  the  following  : 

There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  s'nowers  of  violets  found ; 

The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 

This  beautiful  stanza  —  enough  to  make  the  fortune  of  an  ordinary 
poet,  as  Lowell  says  —  Gray  relentlessly  cut  out,  because  he  thought 
it  too  long  a  parenthesis  in  this  place.  Had  other  poets  shown  a 
tithe  of  this  artistic'conscientiousness,  how  many  tons  of  verse  would 
the  world  have  been  happily  spared ! 

THE   BARD. 

Gray  worked  at  this  poem  through  some  two  years  and  a  half;  in  1757,  with 
the  Ode  on  the  Progress  of  Poesy,  it  was  '  Printed  at  Strawberry  Hill  for  R.  &  J. 
Dodsley,  in  Pall  Mall."  Though  many  '  Pindaric  Odes  '  had  been  published  in 
England  before  this  time,  these  are  the  first  that  give  the  English  reader  an  idea 
of  the  real  manner  of  Pindar.  The  argument  of  the  Ode  is  best  given  in  Gray's 
own  words:  'The  army  of  Edward  I.,  as  they  march  through  a  deep  valley, 
are  suddenly  stopped  by  the  appearance  of  a  venerable  figure  seated  on  the 
summit  of  an  inaccessible  rock,  who,  with  a  voice  more  than  human,  reproaches 
the  King  with  all  the  misery  and  desolation  which  he  had  brought  on  his  coun- 
try; foretells  the  misfortunes  of  the  Norman  race,  and  with  prophetic  spirit 
declares  that  all  his  cruelty  shall  never  extinguish  the  noble  ardour  of  poetic 
genius  in  this  island ;  and  that  men  shall  never  be  wanting  to  celebrate  true 
virtue  and  valour  in  immortal  strains,  to  expose  vice  and  infamous  pleasure,  and 
boldly  censure  tyranny  and  oppression.  His  song  ended,  he  precipitates  himself 
from  the  mountain  and  is  swallowed  up  by  the  river  that  rolls  at  its  foot.' 


66  NOTES    TO    GRAY. 

Metrically,  the  poem  is  divided  into  three  Pericopes  or  groups  of  systems 
(1-48,  49-96,  97-144).  Each  Pericope  is  divided  into  Strophe,  Antistrophe  and 
Epode.  Thus,  in  Pericope  I.,  the  Strophe  is  1-14,  the  Antistrophe  is  15-28,  the 
fipode  is  29-48.  The  metrical  arrangement  of  the  Antistrophe  corresponds 
vvith  that  of  the  Strophe ;  that  of  the  Epode  is  a  law  unto  itself  and  in  Gray's 
time  was  considered  an  unintelligible  experiment. 

1-14.  ruthless  King.  '  This  Ode  is  founded  on  a  tradition  cur- 
rent in  Wales,  that  Edward  the  First,  when  he  completed  the  con- 
quest of  that  country,  ordered  all  the  Bards  that  fell  into  his  hands 
to  be    put  to  death.'  —  Gray.  hauberk.     'The    hauberk  was  a 

texture  of  steel  ringlets,  or  rings,  interwoven,  forming  a  coat  of 
mail,  that  sat  close  to  the  body  and  adapted  itself  to  every  motion.'  — ■ 
Gray.  Cambria.     Latin  name  for  Wales.  Snowdon.    The 

suffix  in  this  word  is  of  Keltic  origin  and  signifies  '  hill '  or  '  mound.' 
It  appears    as    a    prefix    in    Dumbarton,  Dunstable.  Glo'ster; 

Mortimer.  '  They  both  were  Lord  Marchers,  whose  lands  lay  on 
the  borders  of  Wales,  and  probably  accompanied  the  King  in  this 
expedition.'  —  Gray. 

15-28.  Loose  his  beard,  etc.  '  This  image  was  taken  from  a  well- 
know'n  picture  of  Raphael,  representing  the  Supreme  Being,  in  the 
vision  of  Ezekiel.' — Gray.  Hoel;   Llewellyn;  Welsh  bards. 

29-48.  Cadwallo,  Urien,  Modred  [Merlyn?],  are  probably  as  real 
as  King  Arthur  and  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  Plinlim- 

mon ;   in  central  Wales.  Arvon.     '  The  shores  of  Caernarvon- 

shire opposite  the  island  of  Anglesey.'  — Gray.  See  note  on 
Lycidas,  54. 

49-62.  agonizing  King.  Edward  11.  (the  first  English  Prince  of 
Wales)  was  murdered  at  Berkeley  Castle  in  1327.  She-wolf  oi 

France ;  Isabelle,  daughter  of  Philip  the  Fair,  and  wife  of  Edward 
II.,  is  accused  of  having  contrived  the  murder  of  her  husband. 
The  scourge  of  heaven;  Edward  iii.,  who  began  the  Hundred  Years' 
War  against  the  French  and  defeated  them  in  the  great  battle  of 
Crecy  (1346). 

63-76.  Mighty  Victor.  The  vigorous  faculties  of  Edward  iii. 
were  seriously  impaired  some  time  before  his  death  (1377).  He 
came  under  the  evil  influence  of  an  unworthy  woman,  who  is  said  to 
have  robbed  and  deserted  him  on    his    death-bed.  the  Sable 

Warrior;  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  who  died  the  year  before  his 
father.  Fair  laughs  the  Morn.     '  Magnificence  of  Richard  the 

Second's  reign  [1377-1399]'  See  Froissart  and  other  contemporary 
writers  '  —  Gray. 

77-96.  Reft  of  a  crown.  Richard  11.  was  deposed  by  Parliament 
in  favor  of  his  cousin   Henry  of  Bolingbroke,  who,  it  is  alleged, 


THE    BARD.  67 


caused  him  to  be  starved  to  death.  Shakespeare  represents  him  as 
assassinated    by  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton  (Richard  ii.   v.  5).  Long 

years    of  havock;   the  wars  of    the   Roses.  London's    lasting 

shame;  '  Henry  vi.,  George  Duke  of  Clarence,  Edward  v.,  Richard 
Duke  of  York,  etc.,  believed  to  be  murthered  seci-etlj  in  the  Tower  of 
London.  The  oldest  part  of  that  Structure  is  vulgarly  attributed  to 
Julius  Csesar.'  —  Gray.  his  Consort's  faith ;  'Margaret  of  Anjou, 

a  woman  of  heroic  spirit,  who  struggled  hard  to  save  her  Husband 
and  her  Crown.'  — -Gray.  She  appears  in  Scott's  Anne  of  Geierstein, 
in  the  three  parts  of  Shakespeare's  Henry  vi.  and  in  his  Richard 
III.  his  Father's  fame;   Henry  v.  the    meek    Usurper; 

Henry  vi.  Gray  calls  him  'Usurper'  because  his  grandfather 
Henry  iv.  was  not  the  hei'editary  heir  to  the  crown.  But  Henry  iv. 
was  no  usurper,  for  he  was  practically  elected  by  Parliament,  as  was 
William  iii.  nearly  three  hundred  years  later.  the  rose  of  snow; 

the  device  of  York.  her  blushing  foe ;  the  red  i-ose  of  Lancaster. 

See  I  Henry  vi.  ii.  4.  In  later  times  the  white  rose  became  the 
Stuart  emblem.  Compare  the  opening  lines  of  the  Cavaliers'  Chorus 
in  the  opera  of  Villiers,  ii.  3  : 

There's  not  a  flower  that  blooms  a-field 
But  doth  to  thee  in  fragrance  yield, 
Dear  rose,  with  leaf  of  driven  snow, 
Whose  beauty  takes  both  friend  and  foe. 

A  nation's  king  hath  died  for  thee, 
A  nation's  grief  hath  sighed  o'er  thee ; 
Watered  by  England's  richest  blood, 
Thou  brav'st  the  storm  of  fire  and  flood. 

The  bristled  Boar  was  tlie  badge  of  Richard  iii.,  who  caused  his 
two  little  nephews  to  be  murdered  in  the  tower. 

97-110.  Half  of  thy  heart;  Eleanor  of  Castile,  the  devoted  wife 
of    Edward  i.      Slie  died  many  years  before  her  husband.  Ar- 

thur. '  It  was  the  .common  belief  of  the  Welsh  nation,  that  King 
Arthur  was  still  alive'  in  Fairy-Land  and  should  return  again  to 
reign  over  Britain.' —Gray.  genuine  Kings.     Consult  an  Eng- 

lish History  for  Henry  vii.'s  claim  to  the  throne  (1485)  . 

111-124.     a  Form  divine.     Qiieen  Elizabeth.  lion-port  goes 

comically  with  virgin-grace.  Gray  is  stiff  at  a  compliment,  com- 
pared with  the  subtle  and  graceful  Shakespeare  : 

.    .     .    between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth 
Cupid  all  armed.     A  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west; 


gg  NOTES    TO    GRAY. 


And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  the  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts; 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon ; 
And  the  imperial  vofress  passed  on 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  ii.  2.  97-105. 

Taliessin.  '  Taliessin,  Chief  of  the  Bards,  flourished  in  the  sixth 
century.  His  works  are  still  preserved,  and  his  memory  held  in 
high  veneration  among  his  Countrymen.'  —  Gray. 

125-134.  These  lines  refer  to  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  ]SIilton. 
Determine  the  particular  lines  that  refer  to  each  poet. 

135-144.     repairs  the  golden  flood.     Compare  Lycidas,  169. 

Few  poets  would  have  the  artistic  self-restraint  to  end  this  poem  where  Gray 
ended  it.  Thomson,  for  instance,  on  such  a  subject  could  hardly  have  con- 
tented himself  with  less  than  a  thousand  lines.  Even  Shelley,  sometimes, '  can- 
not get  done.'  Gray's  practice  was  based  upon  a  sound  theory  which  he  states 
in  a  letter  to  Mason,  as  follows :  '  The  true  lyric  style,  with  all  its  flights  of 
fancy,  ornaments,  and  heightening  of  expression,  and  harmony  of  sound,  is  in 
its  nature  superior  to  every  other  style ;  which  is  just  the  cause  why  it  could  not 
be  borne  in  a  work  of  great  length,  no  more  than  the  eye  could  bear  to  see  all 
this  scene  that  we  constantly  gaze  upon  — the  verdure  of  the  fields  and  woods., 
the  azure  of  the  sea  and  skies  — turned  into  one  dazzling  expanse  of  gems." 


LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGRAPHY.  69 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


Born  at  Pallasmore  in  County  Longford,  Ireland,  in  1728.  His  father  was 
a  poor  clergyman  and  with  difficulty  sent  his  son  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
where  he  entered  at  the  bottom  of  his  class.  In  1749  he  was  graduated  in  the 
same  honorable  position  ;  after  a  year  and  a  half's  intermittent  study  of  medicine 
at  Edinburgh,  he  spent  some  two  years  strolling  over  western  Europe.  How  he 
supported  himself  during  much  of  this  time  is  a  mystery  ;  possibly  the  twentieth 
chapter  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  parts  of  The  Traveller  may  furnish  a 
clue.  Between  1756  and  1759  he  tried  clerking  it  in  a  chemist's  shop,  practising 
medicine,  proof-reading,  school-teaching,  and  hack-writing.  In  only  the  last 
did  he  succeed;  in  the  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in 
Europe  (1759)  he  emerges  from  the  purlieus  of  Grub-Street  and  in  The  Citizen  of 
the  World  he  has  left  us  some  of  the  most  delightful  Essays  in  English.  While 
we  may  well  object  to  the  unphilosophic  conclusion  of  The  Traveller  we  are 
charmed  by  its  pen-pictures  of  Italy,  Switzerland,  Holland  and  France,  its  easy 
and  melodious  versification,  its  sweet  and  genial  humanity.  The  manuscript 
of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (1766)  was  sold  b}'  Johnson  for  ffito  to  release  Gold- 
smith from  an  arrest  for  debt.  His  excellent  comedy  The  Good  Matured  Man 
brought  him  further  pecuniary  relief — but  temporary  only,  for  Goldsmith  had 
now  accustomed  himself  to  a  manner  of  living  that  could  dispense  with  the 
comforts  of  life,  but  must  have  the  luxuries.  In  poetry.  Goldsmith  reaches  his 
culmination  in  The  Deserted  Village;  in  comedy,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
a  writer,  French  or  English,  who  can  better  the  skilful  construction  and  easy, 
natural  dialogue  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  (1772)-  Goldsmith's  later  years  were 
honored  by  the  friendship  of  such  men  as  Garrick,  Reynolds,  Burke  and  John- 
son. Johnson  really  loved  him.  When  Goldsmith  died  in  1774,  owing  two 
thousand  pounds,  it  was  Johnson  who  gave  us  the  key  to  his  friend's  character 
in  saying  '  Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before  ? ' 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Of  the  numerous  books  on  Goldsmith,  The  Life  and 
.Adventures  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  by  fohn  Forster  is  the  most  scholarly  extended 
study.  But  perhaps  Goldsmith  would  not  have  thanked  the  author  for  his  atti- 
tude of  persistent  and  sentimental  compassion.  Among  the  shorter  works,  the 
life  by  Dobson  (Gt.  Wr.)  contains  much  trifling  and  uninteresting  detail ;  Black's 
Life  of  Goldsmith  (E.  M.  L.)  is  artistically  proportioned,  exquisitely  sympa- 
thetic and  admirably  sane.  Boswell  has  many  anecdotes  of  Goldsmith,  all 
colored  by  Bozzy's  lack  of  the  sense  of  humor  and  by  his  jealousy  of  anybody 
who  got  nearer  to  Johnson  than  did  Bozzy  himself. 


70  NOTES    TO    GOLDSMITH. 

Criticism.  —  Macaulay ;  Essay  on  Goldsmith.  Brings  out  clearly  the  fact 
that  Goldsmith's  mislbitunes  were  due  more  to  himself  than  to  the  neglect  of 
society.  In  nearly  every  other  respect,  shows  a  complete  misunderstanding  of 
Goldsmith's  character. 

DeQuincey ;  Essay  on  Goldsmith.  A  review  of  Forster's  Life  of  Goldsmith, 
in  sympathy  with  the  general  tone  of  that  work.  Contains  also,  in  characteristic 
DeQuincey  style,  digressions  on  the  state  of  the  literary  body  in  France,  and  on 
the  relation  of  literature  to  politics. 

Thackeray  ;  Sterne  and  Goldsmith  in  The  English  Humorists.  Contains  lit- 
tle about  Goldsmith's  works,  but  shows  a  loveable  estimate  of  his  character. 

Fitzgerald;  Principles  of  Comedy.  Those  interested  in  Goldsmith's  dramatic 
genius  will  find  some  excellent  criticism  here. 


THE    DESERTED   VILLAGE. 

This  poem,  published  in  1770,  was  dedicated  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Six 
years  later  Adarr  Smith  published  The  Wealth  of  Nations,  from  which,  had  Gold- 
smith lived,  he  could  have  learned  that  the  economic  change  he  laments  was  a 
blessing  in  disguise  for  those  poor  emigrants  to  whom  it  seemed  a  curse.  But 
we  do  not  read  The  Deserted  Village  for  its  Political  Economy:  we  read  it  for 
its  idyllic  sweetness ;  for  its  portraits  of  the  village  preacher,  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  of  the  country  inn;  for  its  pathetic  description  of  the  poor  emi- 
grants ;  for  the  tender  and  noble  feeling  with  which  Goldsmith  closes  the  poem 
in  his  Farewell  to  Poetry. 

1-34.  Sweet  Auburn !  Attempts  to  identify  '  Sweet  Auburn  ' 
with  any  particular  village  are  futile  and  unnecessary.  The  descrip- 
tion is  idealized,  as  any  one  who  has  had  even  small  experience  in 
the  making  of  verses  can  see.  lent  ( i6)  =  yielded.  simply  (25) 
=  artlesslv.  Smutted  (27)  would  not  be  used  in  serious  poetic 

diction  to-day.  No  description  of  Rustic  Mirth  to  compare  with 
these  thirty-four  lines  had  been  written  in  England  since  Milton's 
L' Allegro.  If  one  might  point  out  a  flaw  in  this  gem,  it  would  be 
the  too  frequent  personification  of  abstract  terms,  such  as  gambol 
(21)  and  sleights  (22). 

35-50.  The  hollow-sounding  bittern.  The  bittern  has  a  hollow, 
throaty  cry,  and  generally  builds  its  nest  on  the  ground.  Perhaps 
this  line  is  a  reminiscence  of  Isaiah  xiv.  23  :  '  I  will  also  make  it 
a  possession  for  the  bittern  and  pools  of  water ;  and  I  will  sweep  it 
with  the  besom  of  destruction,   saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts.'  the 

lapwing,  sometimes  called  the  '  pewit,'  from  its  cry. 

51-56.  Princes  and  lords.  Compare  Burns'  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,  165  ;  also  his  song,  For  A'  That  and  A'  That  (p.  113  01  this 
book).  Lines  55  and  56  point  a  real  moral.  The  strength  of  a 
country  lies  largely  in  its  yeomanry  or  small-farmer  class.  In  this 
respect,  France  leads  the  world. 


THE    DESERTED     VILLAGE.  7l 

57-62.  Here  we  have  again  the  myth  of  a  Golden  Age  of  which 
the  poets  are  so  fond.  History  teaches  plainly  that  there  never  was 
a  time  ere  England's  griefs  began. 

63-74.  trade's  unfeeling  train.  This  is  a  remnant  of  the  Mercantile 
Theory,  wide-spread  in  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages  and  not  dead 
yet  in  unintelligent  communities.  According  to  this  theory  Com- 
merce is  a  war,  and  when  A.  gains,  B.  must  lose.  An  elementary 
knowledge  of  Economics  shows  us  now,  that  where  Commerce 
(Trade)  is  unrestricted,  both  A.  and  B.  gain;  otherwise  there  would 
be  no  Commerce.  rural     .    .    .    manners.     The  ordinary  mean- 

ings attached  to  '  rustic  manners '  and  '  bucolic  manners '  hardly 
bear  out  the  poet's  eulogy.  What  is  there  in  city  life  that  tends  to 
refine  and  polish  the  manners.'' 

75-96.  The  sincerity  that  breathes  through  these  lines  makes  us 
feel  that  here  is  a  bit  of  genuine  autobiography. 

97-112.  unperceived  decay.  Evidently  suggested  by  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes,  293.  Throughout  this  passage  the  influence  of 
Johnson    is   perceptible.  his    latter   end.     '  Hear   counsel    and 

receive  instruction,  that  thou  mayest  be  wise  in  thy  latter  end.' 
Proverbs  xix.  20. 

1 13-136.     careless  =  free    from    care.  loud   laugh.     Fatness 

and  laughter  have  long  been  associated — perhaps  unjustly  —  with 
the  idea  of  weak  mentality.     Compare  : 

Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat : 
Sleek-headed  men  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights : 
Yond  Cassius  hath  a  lean  and  hungry  look : 
He  thinks  too  much  :  such  men  are  dangerous. 

Julius  Caesar,  i.  2.  192-5. 

Yet  Falstaff  was  a  tun  of  a  man.  pause;  the  interval  between  the 
strains  of  the  nightingale's  song. 

Listen  Eugenia, — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves ! 

Again  —  thou  hearest  ? 

Eternal  passion ! 

Eternal  pain ! 

Matthew  Arnold's  Philomela,  28-32. 

Compare  also  Keats'  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  (p.  168  of  this  book). 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale.     A  stiff  and  common- 
place   line,    in    Pope's    earliest    and    worst    irianner.  bloomy. 
Compare  the  opening  lines  of  Milton's  Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale : 
O  Nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still. 

mantling  =  covering  as  with  a  mantle. 


72  NOTES    TO    GOLDSMITH. 

137-162.  We  can  find  many  points  of  resemblance  between  this 
beautiful  portrait  of  the  village  preacher  and  Chaucer's  Poor  Parson 
(Dryden's  character  of  a  Good  Parson).  Goldsmith's  sketch  seems 
to  contain  allusion  to  his  father  and  to  his  brother  Henry.  To  the 
latter  he  had  dedicated  The  Traveller.  disclose  =  allow  to  be 

seen.  mansion  ;  in  its  original  sense  of  '  dwelling-place  '  (Latin, 

'  manere,'  to  stay,  remain).  place  =  position,  as  in  '  He  has  a 

place  in  the  Custom-House.'  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  chang- 

ing hour.     Perhaps  Goldsmith  was  thinking  of  The  Vicar  of  Bray : 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  Sir, 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign 

Still  I'll  be  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  Sir. 

tales  of  sorrow  done.  For  this  absolute  use  of  the  participle,  corn- 
pare  L'Allegro  115,  and  see  Whitney,  §  395-7.  shewed  how 
fields  were  won.  Compare  Alexander's  Feast,  66-8.  His  pity 
gave;  his  natural  sentiment  (P//y)  relieved  them  before  his  theologi- 
cal virtue  {C//ar//}')  came  into  play. 

163-192.  Allured  to  brighter  worlds  and  led  the  way.  In  Chau- 
cer: 

But  Christes  lore  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  fohved  it  him-selve. 

dismayed  =  affrighted  (the  dying  man).  fools,  who  came  to 

scoff.     Compare  Pope's 

For  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 

Essay  on  Criticism,  625. 

The  service  past.     For  the  construction,  compare  line  157.  As 

some  tall  cliff.  See  this  same  figure  with  a  different  but  equally  fine 
application,  in  Matthew  Arnold's  Sonnet  on  Shakespeare: 

For  the  loftiest  hill 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling  place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality. 

193-216.     his  morning  face.     Compare 

.    .    .     the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face.     .     .    . 

As  You  Like  It,  ii.  7  (near  the  end)„ 


THE    DESERTED     VILLAGE.  73 

terms  =  periods  during  which  the  Justices  hold  court.  tides  = 

ecclesiastical  times  or  seasons,  as  Whitsuntide  (=  White -|- Sun- 
day -j~  Time).  presage  =  foretell.  gauge  [gage]=  to 
measure  the  content  of  a  barrel.  words  of  learned  length  and 
thundering  sound.  Goldsmith  must  have  been  thinking  of  the 
conversation  of  his  friend  Dr.  Johnson,  of  whom  he  once  said  that 
it  was  no  use  arguing  with  Johnson ;  if  his  pistol  missed  iire,  he 
knocked  you  down  with  the  butt  end  of  it. 

216-236.  the  twelve  good  rules ;  such  as  (4)  Reveal  No  Secrets, 
(9)  Encourage  No  Vice.  They  are  all  given  in  Hales'  Longer 
English  Poems,  p.  353.  In  our  day  they  have  been  transferred 
from  the  wall  to  the  copy-book.  game  of  goose ;  Fox  and  Geese, 
or  something  like  it.  royal  has  never  been  satisfactorily   ex- 

plained; perhaps  the  poet,  being  in  a  reminiscential  mood,  uses 
'  royal '  subjectively,  as  when  we  say,  '  I  had  a  royal  good  time  yes- 
terday.' Chimney  =  fire-place. 

237-264.     An  hour's  importance.     Compare  Burns' 

Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious ! 

Tam  O'Shanter,  57-8. 

the  barber's  tale.  Since  men  first  shaved,  barbers  have  been  noted 
for  their  talkativeness.  See  the  character  of  Nello  in  George  Eliot's 
Romola.  woodman,    in    its    original    meaning   of    '  hunter.' 

the  smith.  Compare  Longfellow's  beautiful  poem.  The  Village 
Blacksmith.  mantling  bliss  =  the  foaming  ale.  Shall  kiss 

the  cup.     Compare  Ben  Jonson's  song  To  Celia  beginning : 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 

265-302.  This  is  very  pretty  poetry,  but  very  poor  Economics. 
Consult  some  elementary  treatise  on  that  subject,  such  as  Laugh- 
lin's  Elements  of  Political  Economy. 

303-308.  The  fencing-in  of  land  once  common  is  undoubtedly  a 
grievous  wrong  to  the  English  peasant.  For  the  counterbalancing 
advantages  which  he  has  derived  from  the  progress  of  civilization, 
see  the  concluding  pages  of  the  Third  Chapter  of  Macaulay's  His- 
tory of  England. 

309-320.  It  is  amusing  to  notice  how  the  poets  abuse  the  city,  yet 
how,  with  rare  exception,  they  cannot  bear  to  live  anywhere  else. 
Artist  =  artisan,     dome  =^  building,  house;  thus  Coleridge: 


74  NOTES    TO    GOLDSMITH. 

In  Xanada  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree. 

Kubla  Khan,  1-2. 

321-336.  Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn.  '  Gold- 
smith wrote  ill  a  pre-Wordsworthian  age,  wiien  eveti  in  the  realms  of 
poetry  a  primrose  was  not  much  more  than  a  primrose ;  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether,  either  before,  during  or  since  Wordsworth's  time, 
the  sentiment  that  the  imagination  can  infuse  into  the  common  and 
familiar  things  around  us  ever  received  more  happy  expression  than 
in  [this]  well-known  line.'     Black's  Life  of  Goldsmith,  Cap.  xiv. 

337-362.  Goldsmith's  geography  and  natural  -history  are  not  his 
strong  points.  The  Altama  [Altamahd]  river  in  Georgia  enters  the 
Atlantic  near  the  thirty-first  parallel ;  the  flora  and  fauna  he  de- 
scribes are  tropical.     Tigers  in  Georgia! 

363-384.  For  a  somewhat  similar  scene,  compare  Longfellow's 
Evangeline,  i.  5.  seats.     See  note  on  Alexander's  Feast,  26. 

385-394.  The  thought  here  is  certainly  just,  though  the  expression 
(especially  in  line  394)  is  feeble.  In  lines  343-36S  of  The  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes,  Johnson  has  worked  out  this  thought  to  a  logical 
conclusion  that  agrees  pretty  well  with  that  arrived  at  by  Agur  the 
son  of  Jakeh,  some  three  thousand  years  ago  :  '  Give  me  neither 
poverty  nor  riches ;  feed  me  with  food  convenient  for  me.' 

395-426.  anchoring  commonly  means  '  coming  to  anchor,'  but  in 
Lear  iv.  iS-20,  we  have  it  used  as  here,  meaning  '  lying  at  anchor.' 

.    .    .    yon  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminished  to  her  cock ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight. 

strand  =  beach.  The  Strand  in  London,  now  the  busiest  street  in 
the  world,  was  once,  no  doubt,  a  mere  path  by  the  river-side, 
degenerate  times.  The  time  (1770)  was  certainly  degenerate  so  far 
as  Poetry  was  concerned.  Thirteen  years  had  elapsed  since  Gray 
published  his  Odes,  and  during  this  long  night  Goldsmith's  Traveller 
(1764)  twinkled  a  lonely  star.  "  My  shame  in  crowds.  Though 
he  occasionally  struck  off  a  good  thing,  Goldsmith  did  not  shine  in 
conversation.  In  the  blaze  of  Johnson's  talk,  who  could?  No  one 
save  Burke,  and  he  modestly  said,  '  It  is  enough  for  ine  to  have  rung 
the  bell  for  him.'  Keep'st  me  so.     It  was  not  Poetry  that  kept 

Goldsmith    poor,  but    his  own    thriftlessness.  Torno   [Tornea 

or  Torneo],  a  river  that  marks  the  boundary-line  between  Sweden 
and  Russia.     It  flows  into  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia.  Pambamarca. 

A  mountain  in  Ecuador. 

427-430.  These  four  lines  were  added  by  Johnson  and  can  hardly 
be  said  to  improve  the  conclusion  of  the  poem. 


LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGRAPHY.  75 


WILLIAM    COWPER. 


Born  at  Berkhampstead,  1731.  His  father  was  a  Church  of  England  clergy- 
man and  court  chaplain.  At  the  age  of  six,  Cowper  lost  his  mother ;  his 
touching  little  poem  On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  out  of  Norfolk, 
written  many  years  later,  commemorates  his  emotion  on  this  occasion.  He 
acquired  some  knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets  at  Westminster  School,  but  did  not 
proceed  to  the  University.  Admitted  to  the  bar,  success  there  was  interfered 
with  by  an  attack  of  insanity  under  the  influence  of  which  he  attempted  suicide. 
Eighteen  months'  medical  treatment  restored  his  intellect,  but  left  him  with  a 
deep-seated  religious  melancho'lia  that  in  a  few  years  brought  on  another  attack 
of  insanity.  After  his  second  recovery,  while  leading  a  life  of  intolerable  dul- 
ness  at  Olney,  he  took  to  writing  moral  satires  for  diversion.  Only  by  exceed- 
ing charity  can  this  diversion  be  said  to  be  shared  by  his  readers.  To  the 
inspiration  of  his  vivacious  friend  Lady  Austen  we  owe  John  Gilpin,  perhaps 
the  most  humorous  ballad  in  English  — written  by  the  most  melancholy  poet. 
To  her  suggestion  also  we  owe  The  Task  (1785),  a  poem  which,  though  it  has 
neither  beginning,  middle  nor  end,  has  a  discernible  purpose  —  to  sing  'the 
praise  of  retirement  and  of  country  life  as  most  friendly  to  piety  and  virtue.' ' 
Its  still-life  descriptions,  within  their  narrow  limits,  are  almost  perfect;  its 
asceticism,  its  sentimentalism  and  its  provincialism  are  easily  discoverable  — 
and  easily  skipped.  Cowper's  translation  of  Homer  (1791)  proved  —  as  might 
have  been  expected  —  that  the  man  who  found  a  congenial  subject  in  The  Sofa 
and  The  Time  Piece  \^&s  not  the  man  to  sing  of  the  heroes  who  drank  delight  of 
battle  on  the  plains  of  windy  Troy.  His  Letters  preserve  for  us  charming 
glimpses  of  English  country  life  in  the  last  century,  and  perhaps  by  these  he  will 
be  remembered  longer  than  by  his  more  formal  works.  The  declining  years  of 
his  life  were  clouded  by  a  third  attack  of  insanity ;  from  this  he  was  mercifully 
delivered  by  death  in  1800. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Cowper's  Complete  Works,  comprising  his  Poems,  Cor- 
respondence and  Translations.  Edited  with  Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  Robert 
Southey,  S  vols.  (Bohn's  Library).  This  is  the  standard  edition,  if  we  cut  out 
Southey's  tedious  Memoir.  Goldwin  Smith's  Cowper  (E.  M.L.)  gives  all  the 
essential  facts  in  compact  form,  and  succeeds  in  making  really  interesting  the 
record  of  Cowper's  uneventful  life. 

1  Goldwin  Smith's  Cowper,  Cap.  V. 


76  NOTES    TO    COWPER. 

Criticism. — Bagehot ;  Literary  studies.  Vol.  I.;  William  Cowper.  Contains 
some  good  remarks  on  Society  as  a  proper  object  for  tiie  exercise  of  the  poetic 
imagination,  with  a  comparison  between  Pope,  the  poet  of  Town  Life,  and  Cow- 
per, the  poet  of  Rural  Life. 

Sainte-Beuve ;  Causeries  du  Lundi,  Tome  Onzieme  ;  William  Cowper,  ou  De 
La  Poesie  Domestique.  The  nature  of  this  study  is  sufficiently  indicated  by  the 
sub-title.  A  translation  will  be  found  in  English  Portraits,  by  C.  A.  Sairite- 
Beuve  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  N.Y.). 

Leslie  Stephen  ;  Hours  in  a  Library  (  Third  Series)  ;  Cowper  and  Rousseau. 
Dwells  almost  exclusively  on  the  moral  sentiments  common  to  Cowper  and 
Rousseau. 


THE   WINTER   MORNING    WALK. 

This  poem  forms  the  fifth  book  of  The  Task.  The  poet  evidently 
writes  with  his  '  eye  on  the  object ; '  he  sees  a  good  deal  and  he  sees 
it  accurately  and  minutely.  Though  occasionally  commonplace,  he 
is  never  insincere  either  in  thought  or  in  diction. 

1-40.  Spiry.  See  note  on  '  beaked  promontory,'  Lycidas,  9^. 
bents  =  stalks  of  stiff,  wiry  grass.  This  word  has  no  etymological 
connection  with  '  bend,'  but  is  cognate  with  the  German  '  Binse,' 
a  rush.  With  lines  21-32  compare  Thomson's  Winter,  232-242. 
deciduous  =  liable  to  fall. 

41-57.  The  Woodman  and  His  Dog  ;  — perhaps  the  best  specimen 
of  Cowper's  Naturalism.  Homer  could  hardly  have  painted  this 
vignette  with  more  fidelity.  lurcher;  a  cross  between  the  grey- 

hound and  the  collie.  churl.     See  note  on  '  the  Bear,'  II  Pen- 

seroso,  87. 

58-76.     pale.     See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  156.  Kind  =  family, 

race.  Thomson  has  the  word  in  this  sense  in  Winter,  261  ;  also 
Chaucer,  in  The  Wife  of  Bath's  Tale,  245. 

77-95-     Compare   Thomson's    Winter,  242-256.  pensioners. 

See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  10. 

96-126.  Indurated.  Cowper  accents  this  word  on  the  second 
syllable;  Goldsmith  (Traveller,  232)  on  the  first.  Modern  usage 
prefers  the  latter.  that  (106),  object  of  throws. 

127-168.  Imperial  mistress.  Anne,  Empress  of  Russia,  niece  of 
Peter  the  Great,  erected  this  ice-palace  in  St.  Petersburg  in  1740. 
It  was  fifty  feet  long,  with  six  large  windows  in  fi'ont,  the  frames 
of  which  were  painted  to  represent  green  marble.  A  balustrade 
adorned  with  ice-statues  surrounded  the  building.  Orange  trees,  dol- 
phins and  an  elephant,  all  carved  from  ice,  adorned  the  court  thus 
formed ;  ice-cannon  and  mortars  defended  the  approaches.  Elabo- 
rately carved  ice-furniture  filled  the  rooms,  and  ice-logs  were  laid  ready 


THE     WINTER    MORNING     WALK.  77 

to  impart  a  coint'oitable  chill  to  the  biacing  atmosphere.  When  the 
Empress  visited  the  palace,  the  ice-cannon  succeeded  in  firing  a 
small  salute  without  breaking,  and  the  elephant  shot  forth  a  stream 
of  burning  naphtha.  Aristaeus;  Cyrene.     See  CI.  Myths,  §  130. 

lubricity  =  the  state  or  quality  of  being  slippery  ;  hence,  figuratively, 
'  instability,'  '  evanescence.'  This  beautiful  description  of  the  Ice 
Palace  is  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  idealizing  power  of  the 
imagination,  when  we  remember  that  Cowper  had  never  seen  any 
moi-e  impressive  ice-formations  than  those  of  the  sluggish  Ouse. 
What  would  he  have  said  of  Niagara  in  mid-winter ! 


78  '    LIFE    OF  BURNS. 


ROBERT    BURNS. 


Robert  Burns,  the  son  of  a  Scotch  peasant-farmer,  was  born  near  the  town  of 
Ayr  in  1759.  Inspired  by  love,  he  wrote  his  first  song  at  the  age  of  fifteen  ;  the 
same  passion  (though  with  varying  objects)  found  expression  in  the  profusion 
of  beautiful  lyrics  he  poured  out  during  the  next  ten  years,  and  relieved  for  him 
the  monotonous  farm-drudgery  that  was  breaking  his  young  manhood.  His 
first  volume  of  poems  was  published  at  Kilmarnock  in  1786;  it  immediately 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  Edinburgh  literati,  who  received  Burns  with 
open  arms.  Burns'  manliness  and  self-respect  did  not  forsake  him  when  thus 
suddenly  elevated  from  the  society  of  peasants  and  smugglers  to  that  of  Noble- 
men, University  Professors  and  Lord-Justices.  A  couple  of  winters  in  Edin- 
burgh seemed  to  exhaust  their  interest  in  the  greatest  of  Scotch  poets ;  a  small 
place  in  the  Excise  was  thrown  to  Burns  and  he  was  dispatched  to  the  uncon- 
genial tasks  of  gauging  whiskey-barrels  and  scraping  sterile  acres  at  Ellisland. 
Here  he  lived  from  1788  to  1791,  making  a  manful  fight  in  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence that  always  presses  so  hard  upon  the  Scotch  peasant.  '  God  help  the 
children  of  Dependence,'  he  writes,  when  abandoning  the  hopeless  attempt  to 
wring  a  living  out  of  the  Scotch  soil.  Removing  to  Dumfries,  his  duties  as 
Exciseman  brought  him  into  contact  with  low  convivial  company  to  which  he 
was  by  nature  inclined;  much  of  his  magnificent  power  was  frittered  away  in 
tavern-songs  and  political  squibs  Penury  and  despair  dogged  his  few  remain- 
ing years  and  sat  by  his  death-bed;  when  his  mighty  spirit  was  at  last  given 
surcease  of  woe,  Mr,  Pitt — to  whose  disgrace  be  it  recorded  that  he  had  long 
known  of  Burns'  necessities  and  could  have  relieved  them  with  a  stroke  of  his 
pen —  Mr.  Pitt  condescendingly  remarked  that  since  Shakespeare  no  verse  ha? 
the  appearance  of  coming  so  sweetly  from  nature  as  Burns'. 

In  a  letter  to  Miss  Helen  Craik  written  in  1793,  Burns  has  drawn  his  own 
character  with  sad  truthfulness  :  '  Take  a  being  of  our  kind ;  give  him  a  stronger 
imagination  and  a  more  delicate  sensibility,  which  between  them  will  ever 
engender  a  more  ungovernable  set  of  passions  than  are  the  usual  lot  of  man; 
implant  in  him  an  irresistible  impulse  to  some  idle  vagary  .  .  ,  send  him 
adrift  after  some  pursuit  which  shall  eternally  mislead  him  from  the  paths  of 
lucre  and  yet  curse  him  with  a  keener  relish  than  any  man  living  for  the  pleas- 
ures that  lucre  can  purchase;  lastly,  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  woes  by  bestow- 
ing on  him  a  spurning  sense  of  his  own  dignity ;  and  you  have  created  a  wight 
nearly  as  miserable  as  a  poet.' 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY   NIGHT.  79 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  Bums'  life  is  best  studied  in  his  Letters,  now  published 
with  any  good  edition  of  his  works.  Of  the  elaborate  biographies,  Chambers' 
(published  in  1851)  has  not  been  superseded  ;  of  the  shorter,  Shairp's  (E.  M.  I^.) 
is  superior  in  insight  and  sympathy  to  B tackle's  (Gt.  Wr.).  A  thorough  study  of 
Burns  carries  one  back,  of  course,  to  Ramsay,  Fergusson  and  the  ballads  pre- 
served by  Scott  in  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border. 

Criticism. —  Carfyle  ;  Essay  on  Bums.  This  famous  Essay  must  stand  as 
the  best  interpretation  of  Burns,  in  spite  of  some  extraordinary  literary  blunders, 
such  as  the  statements ;  (i)  that  Burns  had  '  models  only  of  the  meanest  sort ; ' 
{2)  that  The  Jolly  Beggars  is  '  refined ;  '  (3)  that  Tam  O'Shanter  is  merely  'a 
piece  of  sparkling  rhetoric'  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  Carlyle  the 
ethical  so  overshadowed  the  aesthetical  that  he  could  see  in  Keats  little  but 
'  weak-eyed  maudlin  sensibility.'  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters.      '  Wit, 

wild  laughter,  energy,  directness,   sincerity:    these  were  in  both    [Mirabeau 
and  Burns] .' 

Christopher  North  ;  Essay  on  The  Genius  and  Character  of  Burns.  Speech 
at  the  Burns  Festival  (1844).  These  are  elaborate  and  sympathetic  studies, 
tinged  with  that  over-enthusiasm  for  Burns  which  may  naturally  be  felt  by  a 
fellow-countryman. 

Emerson;  Speech  at  the  Burns  Centenary  (1859).  Classes  Burns  as  a 
reformer  with  Rabelais,  Shakespeare,  Cervantes  and  Butler. 

Longfellow  ;  Poem  entitled  Robert  Burns. 

Ross;  Burnsiana  ;  A  Collection  of  Literary  Odds  and  Ends  relating  to  Robert 
Burns.     In  this  bushel  of  chaff  will  be  found  a  few  grains  of  excellent  wheat. 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY   NIGHT. 

This  poem,  which  appeared  in  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  owes  something  to 
Fergusson's  '  Farmer's  Ingle.'  The  person  to  whom  it  is  dedicated  would  have 
died  unknown  had  not  Burns  preserved  him  immortal  in  this  inscription.  If 
we  had  to  part  with  any  one  poem  of  Burns,  this  is  the  last  we  should  be  willing 
to  lose;  not  because  it  shows  him  at  his  best  as  a  poet,  —  admirable  as  it  is,— 
but  because  it  shows  him  at  his  best  as  a  man. 

1-9.  For  a  poet  who  had  '  models  only  of  the  meanest  sort,'  this 
handling  of  the  Spenserian  stanza  is  a  deft  performance ! 

10-18.  Notice  with  what  graceful  strength,  in  the  homely  pas- 
sages, Burns  drops  into  his  native  Ayrshire  dialect.  sugh  = 
sough,  a  murmuring  or  rushing  sound.  moil  =  drudgery.  The 
verb  '  to  moil '  (from  the  Latin  mollis,  soft)  means  originally  '  to  wet, 
to  moisten  ;  '  then,  '  to  soil  by  labor  or  toil.'  the  morn  ^  to- 
morrow. And  weary,  etc.  This  is  one  of  several  lines  that 
show  the  influence  of  Gray. 

19-27.     stacher  =  stagger.  fiichterin  =  fluttering.  ingle  = 

fireplace.  carking  =  distressing.    This  word  has  no  etymological 


80  A'OTES    TO    BURNS. 

connection  with  '  care,'  but  is  from  the  Old  French  charger,  to 
load.  toil;  pronounced  '  tile'  as  shown  by  the  rime  here  and  in 

Johnson's  London,  218-219: 

On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile, 

And  bless  thy  evening  walk  and  morning  toil. 

28-36.    Belyve  =  ere  long.  ca'  =  drive.    This  word  is  cognate 

with  'calk,'  as  in  'The  ship's-carpenter  calked  the  seams.'  Com- 
pare '  ca'd,'  Tam  O'Shanter,  25.  tentie  =  attentive.  penny- 
fee  =  money-wages,  as  distinguished  from  wages  paid  in  board  and 
lodging. 

37-45.     spiers  =  inquires.  uncos  =  un -[- known  (things)  = 

news.      See    note    on   'uncouth,'  L'Allegro,   5.  Anticipation. 

Compare  the  first  two  lines  of  Johnson's  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 
and  the  criticism  thereon.  Gars  =  causes.       When  Johnson 

asked  Boswell  Senior  what  Cromwell  had  done  for  his  country-,  the 
doughty  old  Laird  replied,  '  Gad,  Doctor,  he  gart  kings  ken  they 
had  a  lith  [joint]  in  their  necks !  ' 

46-54.     eydent  =  busy,  diligent.  to  jauk  =  to  trifle. 

55-72.     hafflins  =  half.  ben  =  within.     As  a  noun,  this  word 

signifies  the  inner  room  of  a  cottage  as  distinguished  from  the  bid 
or  outer  room.     See  note  on   '  bower,'  L'Allegro,  87.  cracks  = 

talks.  Compare  our  colloquial  '  He  cracks  jokes,'  '  He  cracks  up  his 
own  wares.'  blate  =  bashful.  laithfu'  =  loath  (unwilling) 

-|-  ful  =  shy,  reluctant.  lave  =  what  is  left ;  the  rest. 

73-90.  Lines  80-81  are  evidently  an  echo  from  L'Allegro,  67-8. 
For  the  sentiment  of  the  whole  stanza  in  which  they  occur,  compare 
Clough's  A  London  Idyll,  1-12  : 

On  grass,  on  gravel,  in  the  sun 

Or  now  beneath  the  shade, 
They  went,  in  pleasant  Kensington, 

A  prentice  and  a  maid. 
That  Sunday  morning's  April  glow, 

How  should  it  not  impart 
A  stir  about  the  veins  that  flow 

To  feed  the  youthful  heart. 

Ah!  years  may  come,  and  years  may  bring 
The  truth  that  is  not  bliss, 

But  will  they  bring  another  thing 
That  can  compare  with  this  ? 

91-99.  soupe  =  (originally)  a  liquor  with  something  soaked  in 
it.  hawki3  =  cow;  specifically,  a  white-faced  cow.  hallan; 


THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY  NIGHT.  81 

a  partition  between  the  door  and  the  ingle.  hain'd  means  liter- 

ally '  hedged-in,'   '  inclosed  ;' hence  'kept,'   'preserved.'  keb- 

buck :  '  .  .  .  a  cheese  that  is  made  with  ewe  milk  mixed  with  cow's 
milk.' —  Scott,  Old  Mortality,  Cap.  viii.  fell  =  sharp,  biting. 

towmond  =  twelvemonth.  sin' =  when.         lint  =  flax.         i' the 

bell  =  in  blossom. 

100-108.  ha'-Bible ;  the  Bible  kept  in  the  hall  or  principal  room 
of  the  cottage.     See  note  on  '  ben,'  line  64.  lyart  haffets  =  gray 

temples.  wales  =  chooses;  cognate  Avith  the  German  '  Wahl,' 

choice.  Let  us  worship   God.     '  [Robert]   had  frequently  re- 

marked to  nie  that  he  thought  there  was  something  peculiarly  ven- 
erable in  the  phrase  "  Let  us  worship  God,"  used  by  a  decent 
sober  head  of  a  family  introducing  family  worship.  To  this  senti- 
ment of  the  author,  the  world  is  indebted  for  The  Cottei"'s  Saturday 
Night.' — Gilbert  Burns  (brother  of  the  poet). 

109-126.  Dundee;  Martyrs;  Elgin;  names  of  hymn-tunes. 
beets  =  kindles;  originally  (i)  'to  make  better;'  (2)  'to  mend' 
(the  fire).  It  is  from  the  same  root  as  boots  (=  profits),  for  which 
see  note  on  Lycidas,  64.  Italian  trills  are  tame.     That  depends 

upon  whether  you  are  an  Italian  or  a  Scotchman.  Burns'  acquaint- 
ance with  Italian  music  Avas  more  than  limited. 

127-135.  The  priest-like  father.  It  is  well  known  that  this  por- 
trait is  intended  for  Burns'  own  father.  the  royal  Bard  = 
David.  lone  Patmos.  St.  John  the  Apostle  was  banished  to 
this  island  in  his  old  age.  great  Bab'lon's  doom ;  as  told  in 
Revelation   xviii. 

136-162.     For  line  138,  see  Pope's  Windsor  Forest,  111-112  : 

See !  from  the  brake  the  whirring  pheasant  springs, 
And  mounts  exulting  on  triumphant  wings. 

stole.  An  ecclesiastical  vestment  worn  by  priests  in  the  Anglican, 
Roman  Catholic  and  Greek  Churches.  It  is  a  long,  r\arrow  strip  of 
silk,  drawn  over  the  shoulders  and  hanging  down  in  front  to  about 
the  knees. 

163-171.  With  line  165  coinpare  line  53  of  Goldsmith's  Deserted 
Village.  Line  167  is  line  247  of  the  Fourth  Epistle  in  Pope's  Essay 
on  Man. 

172-180.  With  the  exception  of  the  last  line,  this  stanza  is  a 
somewhat  commonplace  paraphrase  of  sentiments  scattered  through 
The  Deserted  Village. 

181-189.  Wallace  (d.  1305)  was  Burns'  favorite  hero.  His  story 
is  told  in  Scott's  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,  First  Series,  Cap.  vii. 
See  Burns'  Bannockburn,  p.  112,  of  this  book. 


82  NOTES    TO    BURNS. 

TAAI   O'SHANTER. 

Goldsmith  justly  considered  ten  lines  of  The  Deserted  Village  a  good  morn- 
ing's work;  Burns,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  actually  wrote  Tam  O'Shanter  in 
one  day !  The  scene  is  laid  within  sight  of  Burns'  birth-place,  near  which  the 
ruins  of  Alloway  Kirk  may  still  be  seen.  Brownyis  (Brownies)  were  supposed  to 
be  friendly  spirits  that  haunted  farm-houses  ;  Dogilis  (Bogies)  were  evil  spirits. 

I-I2.       chapman    billies  =  pedlar    fellows.  drouthy  =  dry, 

thirsty,  gate  =  road,  often  confused  with  gate  meaning  a  '  door.' 
In  the  meaning  of  '  road,'  the  word  survives  in  many  street-names, 
as  Bishopsgate,  Kirkgate,  and  is  cognate  with  the  German  Gasse  = 
street.  nappy  =  strong  ale  ;  ale  that  makes  you  '  nap.'  unco 

(a  dialectal  reduction  of  '  uncouth')  =  wonderfully;  very.  slaps 

=  gaps  in  fences. 

13-36.  Tam  O'Shanter.  The  honor  of  being  the  original  of  this 
famous  character  is  conceded  to  one  Douglas  Graham  of  the 
Shanter  Farm  in  the  parish  of  Kirkoswald.  His  tombstone  and 
that  of  his  shrewish  wife  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  parish  church- 
yard, skellum  =  scoundrel.  blethering  =  blathering  = 
foolish-talking.  The  form  '  Blatherskite'  (and  the  creature)  are  as 
well  known  in  the  United  States  as  in  Scotland.  blellum  = 
noisy  fellow.  ilka  melder  =  every  grinding  (of  your  meal). 
ca'd.  See  note  on  '  ca,'  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  30.  Kirkton  ; 
the  village  where  stands  the  parish  church.  warlocks  =  wizards, 
mirk  (murk)  =  darkness.  gars.  See  note  on  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,  44.              greet  =  weep. 

37-58.  reaming  swats  =  foaming  ale ;  Goldsmith's  '  mantling 
bliss.'  Souter  =  Shoemaker. 

59-78,  tide  =  opportunity.  See  note  on  '  tides,'  in  The  Deserted 
Village,  209. 

79-96.     skelpit  =  hurried.  whiles  =  at    times.     '  Whiles  '    is 

the  adverbial  genitive  of  the  Old  English  '  hwil,'  meaning  '  time.' 
The  Scotch  use,  illustrated  here,  preserves  the  original  meaning 
better    than    does    the    English     use.  smoored  =  smothered. 

birks  =  birches.  meikle  =  big.  whins  =  furze    or   gorse. 

the  cairn  in  Burns'  time  was  covered  with  trees,  and  a  few  fields  to 
the  left,  as  you  follow  the  old  road  fi-om  Ayr  to  Maybole,  stands  the 
house  in  which  he  was  born. 

97-110.     bore  =  hole  (in  the  wall).  John  Barleycorn.     A  (loo) 

favorite  subject  with  Burns.  See  his  inimitable  ballad,  John  Barley- 
corn : 

There  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high, 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. — 


TAM    O'SHANTER.  83 


boddle.  A  Scotch  coin,  issued  under  Charles  II.,  value  2d. ;  some- 
times called  a  '  turner.' 

111-124.     winnock-bunker  =  window-seat.  in  the  east  (end 

of  the  church).  touzie  tyke  =  shaggy  cur.  skirl  =  scream, 

dirl  =  tremble.  It  has  long  been  a  seriously  debatable  question 
whether  it  is  possible  to  extract  music  from  Scotch  bag-pipes.  The 
great  authoi-ity  of  Burns  cannot  be  quoted  on  the  aflirmative,  for 
you  will  notice  he  does  not  say  that  auld  Nick  succeeded  in  giving 
the  company  music,  but  merely  that  it  was  his  charge  [duty]  to  give 
them  music.  All  that  the  poet's  utmost  patriotism  can  assert  is 
that  the  bag-pipes  did  '  scream.'  A  later  and  scarcely  less  eminent 
authority  (Mr.  Gilbert),  in  his  pathetic  ballad  Ellen  Mcjones  Aber- 
deen, comes  out  less  dubitatively  in  favor  of  the  bag-pipes  : 

'  Let's  show,'  said  McClan,  '  to  this  Sassenach  loon 
That  the  bag-pipes  can  play  him  a  regular  tune.' 
'  Let's  see,'  said  McClan,  as  he  thoughtfully  sat, 
'  In  my  Cottage  is  easy,  —  I'll  practise  at  that.' 

He  blew  at  his  '  Cottage,'  and  blew  with  a  will, 
For  a  year,  seven  months  and  a  fortnight,  until 
(You'll  hardly  believe  it)   McClan,  I  declare. 
Elicited  something  resembling  an  air. 

It  was  wild,  it  was  fitful;  as  wild  as  the  breeze  — 
It  wandered  about  into  several  keys ; 
It  was  jerky,  spasmodic,  and  harsh  I'm  aware, 
But  still  it  distinctly  suggested  an  air. 

'  Hech  gather,  hech  gather,  hech  gather  around ; 
And  fill  a'  ye  lugs  wi'  the  exquisite  sound. 
An  air  fra"  the  bag-pipes !  Beat  that  if  you  can ; 
Hurrah  for  Clonglocketty  Angus  McClan ! ' 

125-142.  These  are  the  weakest  lines  in  the  poem.  Instead  of 
entering  into  The  Horrible  and  carrying  us  with  him,  the  author 
stands  outside  and  laughs  at  it.  We  feel  all  the  time  that  there  was 
really  nothing  for  Tam  to  be  frightened  at.  cantrip  =  magic, 

unchristen'd  bairns.  The  belief  that  unchristened  babies  went  to 
hell  was  very  common  during  the  Dark  Ages,  and  was  the  origin  of 
the  custom  of  baptizing. them  within  three  days  of  birth.  The  only 
evidence  we  have  that  Shakespeare  was  born  on  the  23d  of  April  is 
the  entry  in  the  register  of  Trinity  Church,  Stratford,  that  he  was 
baptized  on  the  26th.  gab  =  mouth.  This  word  is  related  to  the 
name  of  our  friend  Gobbo,  who  had  the  '  infection  to  serve.' 

143-162.     cleekit  =  clutched.  carlin  =  old  woman.  Rig- 

woodie;  from  rig  (ridge),  the  back  -\-  zviddie  (withy)  =  the  rope 


84  NOTES    TO    BURNS. 

that  goes  over  a  horse's  back  to  support  the  shafts ;  hence,  '  twisted,' 
'  mis-shapen.'  spean  =  cause    to    vomit.  crummock  =  a 

staff  with  crooked  head. 

163-178.     walie  =  beautiful.  perished  =  caused  to  perish ; 

so  used  in  Elizabethan  English.  bear  =  barley.  ham  = 

coarse  linen.  coft  =  bought.  pund  Scots.     A  pound  Scots 

was  equal  to  ^2  ^"  English  pound. 

179-192.      botched  =  was  restless.  syne  =  after  that ;    not 

common  except  in  the  expression  Auld  Lang- Syne  =  Old  Long- 
Ago.  tint  (preterite  of  '  tine')  =  lost. 

193-205.  Notice  how  admirably  the  similes  are  adapted  to  the 
subject;   homely  and  lively.  fyke  =  bustle.  byke  =  hive, 

eldritch  =  ghastly. 

206-229.  key-stane.  'It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  witches,  or 
any  evil  spirits,  have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  farther 
than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream.  It  may  be  proper, 
likewise,  to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller  that  when  he  falls  in 
with  bogles,  whatever  danger  there  may  be  in  his  going  forward, 
there  is  much  more  hazard  in  turning  back.' — Burns.  ettle  = 

intention. 

This  poem  carries  the  reader  along  with  a  rush,  by  means  of  a  kind  of 
Homeric  liveliness  and  directness.  With  an  exception  already  noted,  there  is 
hardly  a  dull  line  to  be  found ;  the  incidents  are  duly  subordinated  to  the  main 
action,  and  the  interest  is  not  allowed  to  flag  a  moment  before  the  end.  Burns' 
acquaintance  with  Greek  literature  was  probably  nil,  yet  in  design  and  execu- 
tion his  poem  is  thoroughly  Greek  —  that  is,  in  accordance  with  the  best  models. 
A  quotation  from  Matthew  Arnold  will  make  this  clear :  '  The  radical  difference 
between  the  poetic  theory  of  the  Greeks  and  our  own  is  this  :  That  with  them 
the  poetical  character  of  the  action  in  itself,  and  the  conduct  of  it,  was  the  first 
consideration ;  with  us,  attention  is  fixed  mainly  on  the  value  of  the  separate 
thoughts  and  images  which  occur  in  the  treatment  of  an  action.  They  regarded 
the  whole  :  we  regard  the  parts.' 

*  TO    A   MOUSE. 

Burns'  father  died  in  1784.  Upon  Robert  and  Gilbert  Burns  fell  the  respon- 
sibility of  supporting  the  widowed  mother  and  her  younger  children.  The 
young  men  made  a  brave  effort.  They  leased  a  small  farm  (Mossgiel)  near 
Lochlea,  and  toiled  early  and  late;  in  two  seasons — thanks  to  bad  seed,  poor 
soil  and  a  late  harvest  —  they  lost  neariy  everything  they  had.  '  This  overset  all 
my  wisdom,'  Burns  wrote  despairingly;  in  this  little  poem  he  has  expressed  this 
same  thought  with  a  mournful  pathos  drawn  from  his  own  sad  experiences. 

1-24.     brattle  =  hurry.  pattle  =  a   small   spade  for  cleaning 

the  plough.  whiles.  See  note  on  Tam  O'Shanter,  S3.  daimen 
=  occasional.  icker  =  ear  (of  corn).  thrave  =  twenty-four 


BANNOCKBURN.  85 


sheaves,  set  up  in  the  field.  lave.     See  note  on  Cotter's  Saturday 

Night,  72.  big  =  build.  foggage  =  aftermath.  snell 

=  piercing;  cognate  with  the  German  scknell  =  quick. 

25-48.     But  =  without    (the    original    meaning).  hald  = 

holding.  thole  =  endure,  suffer.  cranreuch  =  hoar-frost. 

no  thy  lane  =  not  (thyself)  alone.  a-gley  ==  awry, 

TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY. 

This  is  another  poem  written  in  those  depressing  days  at  Mossgiel  and  com- 
ing straight  from  Burns'  heart. 

1-35.     stoure  =  dust.  bield  =  shelter;  (from  the  same  root  as 

'bold').  histie  =  dry,  barren.     With  lines  19-28,  coinpare 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane; 
Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again; 

Yet  nothing  daunted 
Nor  grieved  if  thou  be  set  at  naught : 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

Wordsworth ;  To  the  Daisy,  17-24. 

37-54.  card ;  a  synecdoche  for  '  compass.'  Pope  has  the  same 
figure  with  nearly  the  same  application  : 

On  life's  vast  ocean  diversely  we  sail. 
Reason  the  card,  but  Passion  is  the  gale. 

Essay  on  Man,  ii.  107-108. 

'  This  passage,'  Warton  tells  us,  '  is  exactly  copied  from  Fonte- 
nelle.'  Thus  do  the  poets  live  off  each  other!  —  Or  shall  we  rather 
say,  with  more  conventional  dignity :  Thus  do  the  poets  hand  down 
from  age  to  age  the  intellectual  treasures  of  their  stock  in  trade? 

When  Burns  was  living,  he  asked  of  the  world  bread  and  they  gave  him  a 
stone.  When  he  was  dead  and  wanted  nothing,  they  builded  him  a  tawdry 
monument;  nay,  worse,  two  tawdry  monuments,  one  on  the  banks  of  Doon, 
near  Alloway  Kirk,  the  other  at  Dumfries.  To  injury  they  added  insult  by 
inscribing  on  the  latter  a  long  eulogium  in  doubtful  Latin.  Better  had  they 
have  cut  thereon  — 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  hfe's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

BANNOCKBURN. 

Burns'  expressed  sympathy  with  the  French  Revolution  came  near  cost- 
ing him  his  place  in  the  Excise;  he  was  instructed  by  his  superior  officer  (one 


86  NOTES    TO    BURNS. 

Corbet)  that  his  '  business  was  to  act,  not  to  think!  This  would  have  been  an 
exceedingly  easy  instruction  for  Corbet  himself  to  follow,  but  Burns  was  not  a 
Corbet.  The  poet's  pent-up  feeling  found  relief  in  Bannockburn,  of  which  he 
writes  that  the  '  recollection  of  that  glorious  struggle  for  freedom,  associated  with 
the  glowing  ideas  of  some  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not  quite  so  ancient, 
roused  my  rhyming  mania.' '  In  the  same  letter  he  writes  of  the  air  Hey  tuttie 
tatie  :  '  .  .  .  well  I  know  that  ...  it  has  often  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 
There  is  a  tradition,  which  I  have  met  with  in  many  places  of  Scotland,  that  it 
was  Robert  Bruce's  march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought,  in  my 
solitary  wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty 
and  independence  which  I  threw  into  a  kind  of  Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air, 
that  one  might  suppose  to  be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot's  address  to  his  heroic  fol- 
lowers on  that  eventful  morning.  So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of  truth 
and  liberty  as  he  did  that  day  1    Amen." 

The  battle  oi  Bayinockbiirn  was  fought  on  the  24th  of  June,  1314,  and  resulted 
in  the  total  defeat  of  the  English  under  Edward  II. 

FOR   A'   THAT   AND   A'   THAT. 

This  triumphant  lyric  of  Democracy  was  written  on  New  Year's  Day,  1795. 
Some  two  years  earlier  the  Marseillaise  had  spread  like  wild-fire  through 
France ;  but  the  Marseillaise  is  a  local  song : 

Frangais,  pour  nous,  ah!  quel  outrage! 

For  A'  That  is  a  song  for  all  men  of  all  nations ;  it  breathes  '  the  prophetic 
soul  of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on  things  to  come.' 

1-8.     gowd  =  gold.     Compare  : 

Worth  makes  the  man  and  want  of  it  the  fellow, 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  iv.  203-204. 

g-40.      hodden-grey  =  coarse   woollen   cloth.  birkie  =  con- 

ceited fellow.  coof=lout.  A  prince  can  make    a   belted 

knight.     Compare  The   Deserted  Village,  53-54,  and  The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,  165.  fa'  =  pretend  to.  gree  =  prize,  honor. 

1  Letter  to  G.  Thomson,  Sept.,  1793. 


THE    REVIVAL    OE    ROAL-iNTICISM.  87 


THE    REVIVAL    OF    ROMANTICISM. 


The  great  writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  Pope  at  their  head,  had  a 
deep  distrust  for  all  forms  of  politics  and  literature  characterized  by  Visionari- 
ness,  Enthusiasm,  Mysticism,  and  Fantasticism.  With  a  shudder  at  the  re- 
membrance of  a  Rump  Parliament  and  a  Cowley,  they  turned  to  Reality  and 
moralized  their  song.  Who  shall  blame  them  ?  — But  given  the  human  mind, 
constituted  as  it  is,  the  reaction  against  their  habit  of  thought  was  sure  to  come. 
However  excellent  the  quality  of  the  bread,  men  will  not  live  on  bread  alone. 
The  craving  after  the  Supernatural,  the  longing  to  escape  from  the  bonds  of 
Sense,  the  desire  to  identify  the  life  of  Man  with  the  life  of  Nature,  the  fond 
looking-back  to  the  mythical  ideals  of  the  Past,  —  all  this  is  in  the  heart  of  man 
and  must,  from  time  to  time,  find  expression.  From  such  subjects  the  classical 
poets  of  the  eighteenth  century  resolutely  averted  their  faces ;  hence,  in  due 
time,  there  arose  to  treat  these  subjects,  a  new  school  of  poets  :  their  morning 
star  glimmered  in  Collins,  and  their  sun  rose  in  full  splendor  in  Coleridge. 
Byron,  Keats,  Shelley,  Scott,  and  Wordsworth,  dissimilar  as  they  appear  at 
first  sight,  will  all  be  found,  on  closer  study,  to  belong  to  this,  the  Romantic 
School. 


88  NOTES    TO    COLERIDGE. 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


Born  in  Devonshire  in  1772.  He  speaks  of  himself  as  an  imaginative  child 
who,  at  the  age  of  six,  had  read  Belisarius,  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Philip  Quarll. 
At  nine  he  entered  Christ's  Hospital  School,^  where  Charles  Lamb  was  already 
a  pupil.  Debts,  disappointed  love  and  Pantisocratic  dreams  interfered  sadly 
with  his  studies  at  Cambridge  (1791-94), which  he  left  without  taking  his  degree. 
One  Cottle,  a  publisher,  having  offered  to  buy  at  a  guinea  and  a  half  a  hundred 
(eight  cents  a  line)  all  the  verses  Coleridge  could  write,  the  young  bard  married 
on  this  brilliant  prospect.  The  dreary  struggle  for  bread  and  butter  that  fol- 
lowed brought  on  nervous  prostration,  and  this  that  opium  habit  which  DeQuin- 
cey  says  killed  Coleridge  as  a  poet.  Kubla  Khan  and  Christabel :  Part  the 
First,  were  written  in  1797.  His  growing  intimacy  with  the  Wordsworths  led 
him  to  publish  The  ^««>«/ il/a/-i«<?r  in  Wordsworth's  Lyrical  Ballads  (1798). 
The  same  year  a  small  annuity  bestowed  by  some  generous  friends  enabled 
him  to  visit  Germany.  From  Gottingen  he  writes  :  '  I  shall  have  bought  thirty 
pounds '  worth  of  books,  chiefly  metaphysics,  and  with  a  view  to  the  one  work 
to  which  I  hope  to  dedicate  in  silence  the  prime  0/  my  life.' 

With  Coleridge  the  metaphysician  and  the  theologian  we  are  not  greatly  con- 
cerned here.  The  thirty-six  years  of  life  that  remained  to  him  after  1798  were 
devoted  chiefly  to  those  subjects — -with  what  success  we  may  be  content  to  let 
the  metaphysicians  decide.  Occasionally  Coleridge  would  make  an  excursion 
into  the  fields  of  Belles-Lettres  and  sow  there  such  precious  seeds  as  are  to  be 
found  scattered  through  the  Diographia  Literaria  and  the  Lectures  on  Shake- 
speare. At  rarer  intervals  he  would  rouse  his  dormant  poetic  faculty,  as  when 
he  wrote  Christabel :  Part  the  Second,  The  Ballad  of  the  Dark  Ladie  (both  of 
these  unfinished  and  unfinishable),  and  the  magnificent  Hymn  Before  Sunrise, 
in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni.  These  fragments,  thrown  off  during  nearly  four 
decades  of  inglorious  dependence  upon  rich  men's  bounties;  innumerable 
projects  for  a  magnum  opus  that  never  came  to  anything ;  the  worship  of  a 
little  philosophical  coterie  whose  feeble  influence  is  rapidly  waning ;  —  such  are 
the  literary  results  of  the  manhood  and  old  age  of  one  whose  youthful  perform- 
ance declares  him  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  splendidly  endowed  of  English 
poets. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Prefixed  to  the  latest  and  best  edition  of  Coleridge's 
Poems  is  a  careful  and  elaborate  biography  by  J.  Dykes  Campbell.    (Macmillan.) 

1  See  Thackeray's  Newcomes,  Cap.  lxxv. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER. 


This  does  not  attempt  any  literary  estimate  in  connection  with  the  life ;  such 
a  treatment  will  be  found  in  Traill's  Coleridge  (E.  M.  L.)-  Hall  Caine's 
Life  of  Coleridge  (Gt.  Wr.)  contains  a  good  Bibliography.  The  poet's  grandson, 
E.  H.  Coleridge,  has  in  preparation  another  and  more  elaborate  biography  :  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine  what  useful  or  pleasant  result  will  be  attained  by  exhibiting  to 
the  world  in  more  detail  the  characteristics  of  the  poetical  Skimpole  who  dwelt 
at  Highgate.  Contemporary  portraits  will  be  found  in  Lamb's  (fanciful)  Christ's 
Hospital Five-and-Thirty  Years  Ago ;  in  DeQuincey' s  Literary  and  Lake  Remi- 
niscences and  in  his  Coleridge  and  Opium  Eating ;  in  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the 
English  Poets  and  in  his  Literary  Remains  (Essay  XIX.)  ;  in  Carlyle's  Sterling, 
Part  I.  Cap.  viii. 

Criticism.  —  James  Wilson  ( Christopher  North) :  Essay  on  Coleridge's 
Poetical  Works.  If  any  one  lack  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Coleridge,  he 
should  read  this  Essay,  which  places  the  Hymn  before  Sunrise  ahead  of  any 
strain  in  Milton  or  Wordsworth  ! 

Whipple:  Essays  and  Reviews  ;  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  ;  also, 
Coleridge  as  a  Philosophical  Critic.  Two  little  studies  as  admirable  for  their 
sanity  as  for  their  brevity. 

Sivinburne  :  Essays  and  Studies  ;  Coleridge.  The  most  poetically-apprecia- 
tive estimate  we  have  ;  ranks  Coleridge  as  the  greatest  of  lyric  poets  '  for  height 
and  perfection  of  imaginative  quality.' 

Courthope  :  The  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature  ;  {Poetry,  Painting 
and  Music)  :  Coleridge  and  Keats.  Contends  that  whatever  unity  there  may 
be  in  Coleridge's  poems  is  not  logical  unity,  but  musical  unity. 

Lowell :  Address  on  Unveiling  the  Bust  of  Coleridge  at  Westminster  Abbey. 
A  charming  little  speech  that  judiciously  avoided  taxing  the  thinking-power 
of  the  audience. 

(Those  w  ho  are  courageous  enough  to  follow  Coleridge  into  what  he  him- 
self called  the  '  holy  jungle  of  transcendental  metaphysics '  will  find  an  exposi- 
tion and  critique  (i)  of  his  social  and  political  philosophy  in  f.  S.  Mill's 
Dissertations  and  Discussions,  Vol.  ii. ;  (2)  of  his  moral,  religious  and  metaphys- 
ical systems  in  Shairp's  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy.  The  latter  is  the  Fine 
Old  Tory  view,  and  declares  Coleridge  to  have  been  '  the  greatest  thinker  whom 
Britain  has  during  the  century  produced.'  ( !)  Mr.  G.  E.  Woodberry  hardly 
shares  this  conviction,  for  he  asserts  ( A^.  Y.  Nation,  39, 549)  that  it  is  plain  not  only 
that  Coleridge's  '  mind  ranged  through  a  vast  circuit  of  knowledge  habitually, 
but  also  that  it  touched  the  facts  only  at  single  points  and  superficially.'  Most 
of  us,  I  think,  will  also  agree  with  Mr.  Woodberry  when  he  adds  :  [Coleridge's] 
'theology  and  metaphysics,  in  pursuit  of  which  he  wasted  his  powers,  are 
already  seen  to  be  transient."  An  artistic  description  of  Coleridge  as  a  critic 
is  given  by  Professor  H.  A.  Beers  in  the  Introduction  to  his  Prose  Extracts 
from   Coleridge.) 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER. 

The  origin  of  this  poem  is  thus  related  in  Wordsworth's  Memoirs :  '  In  the 
autumn  of  1797,  he  [Coleridge] ,  my  sister  and  myself  started  from  Alfoxden 
pretty  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  view  to  visit  Linton  and  the  Valley  of  Stones 


90  NOTES    TO    COLERIDGE. 

near  to  it ;  and  as  our  united  funds  were  very  small,  we  agreed  to  defray  the 
expense  of  the  tour  by  writing  a  poem  to  be  sent  to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine 
set  up  by  Phillips  the  bookseller,  and  edited  by  Dr.  Aiken.  Accordingly,  we 
set  off,  and  proceeded  along  the  Quantock  Hills,  towards  Watchet,  and  in  the 
course  of  this  walk  was  planned  the  poem  of  the  '  Ancient  Mariner,"  founded  on 
a  dream,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  said,  of  his  friend  Mr.  Cruikshank.  Much  the  greatest 
part  of  the  story  was  Mr.  Coleridge's  invention ;  but  certain  parts  I  suggested  ; 
for  example,  some  crime  was  to  be  committed  which  should  bring  upon  the 
Old  Navigator,  as  Coleridge  afterwards  delighted  to  call  him,  the  spectral 
persecution,  as  a  consequence  of  that  crime  and  his  own  wanderings.  I  had 
been  reading  in  Shelvocke's  Voyages  a  day  or  two  before,  that  while  doubling 
Cape  Horn,  they  frequently  saw  Albatrosses  in  that  latitude,  the  largest  sort  of 
sea-fowl,  some  extending  their  wings  twelve  or  thirteen  feet.  '  Suppose,"  said  I, 
'you  represent  him  as  having  killed  one  of  these  birds  on  entering  the  South 
Sea,  and  that  the  tutelary  spirits  of  these  regions  take  upon  them  to  avenge  the 
crime.'  The  incident  was  thought  fit  for  the  purpose,  and  adopted  accordingly. 
1  also  suggested  the  navigation  of  the  ship  by  the  dead  men,  but  do  not  recollect 
that  I  had  anything  more  to  do  with  the  scheme  of  the  poem.  The  gloss  with 
which  it  was  subsequently  accompanied  was  not  thought  of  by  either  of  us  at 
the  time,  at  least  not  a  hint  of  it  was  given  to  me,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  a 
gratuitous  afterthought.  We  began  the  composition  together,  on  that  to  me 
memorable  evening;  I  furnished  two  or  three  lines  at  the  beginning  of  the 
poem,  in  particular: 

And  listened  like  a  three  years'  child, 
The  Mariner  had  his  will. 

These  trifling  contributions,  all  but  one,  which  Mr.  C.  has  with  unnecessary 
scrupulosity  recorded,  slipped  out  of  his  mind,  as  well  they  might.  As  we 
endeavored  to  proceed  conjointly  (I  speak  of  the  same  evening),  our  respective 
manners  proved  so  widely  different  that  it  would  have  been  quite  presumptuous 
in  me  to  do  anything  but  separate  from  an  undertaking  upon  which  I  could 
only  have  been  a  clog." 

The  effect  for  which  Coleridge  strove  in  this  poem  he  has  fortunately  de- 
scribed for  us  in  Cap.  xiv.  of  his  Biographia  Literaria :  '  During  the  first  year 
that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  were  neighbors,  our  conversations  turned  frequently 
on  the  two  cardinal  points  of  poetry :  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the 
reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of  giving 
the  interest  of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colors  of  imagination.  The  sudden 
charm  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  moonlight  or  sunset  diffused 
over  a  known  and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the  practicability  of 
combining  both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature.  The  thought  suggested  itself 
(to  which  of  us  I  do  not  recollect)  that  a  series  of  poems  might  be  composed  of 
two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be  in  part,  at  least,  super 
natural;  and  the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  of  th/ 
affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions  as  would  naturally  accom 
pany  such  situations,  supjiosing  them  real.  And  real  in  this  sense  they  hava 
been  to  every  human  being,  who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any 
time  believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency.    For  the  second  class,  sub- 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  91 


jects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life ;  the  characters  and  incidents  were  to 
be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity  where  there  is  a  medi- 
tative and  feeling  mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to  notice  them  when  they  present 
themselves. 

*  In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads ;  in  which  it  was  agreed 
that  my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to  persons  and  characters  supernatural, 
or  at  least  romantic;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  a  human 
interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth,  sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of 
imagination  that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief,  for  the  moment,  which  consti- 
tutes poetic  faith." 

This  exposition  by  the  author  leaves  little  need  for  more  comment  on  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  save  perhaps  a  word  as  to  the  form.  This  is  modelled  on 
that  of  the  medieval  ballad;  but  if  you  compare  it  with  one  of  these  ^ — ^The 
Demon  Lover,  for  instance,  or  Sir  Patrick  Spens  —  you  will  notice  the  incom- 
parable superiority  of  Coleridge,  both  in  the  depth  of  his  psychological  observa- 
tion and  in  the  bewitching  melody  of  his  cadences. 

PART  I. 

Eftsoons  C12)  ;  from  the  Old  English  e/?  =  again -[- .To«e  =  soon  = 
at  once,  speedily.  With  lines  21-24  compare  the  opening  stanzas 
of  Tennyson's  The  Voyage ;  indeed  the  whole  of  that  poetn  shows 
Coleridge's  influence.  minstrelsy  (36)  =  coinpany  of  musicians. 

Compare,  '  But  now  bring  me  a  minstrel.  And  it  came  to  pass, 
when  tlie  minstrel  played,  that  the  hand  of  the  Lord  came  upon 
him.'     2  Kings,  iii.  15.  thunder-fit  (69)  =  a  noise  like  thunder. 

The  oldest  meaning  of  this  word  '  fit '  is  '  struggle  ; '  it  has  no  etymo- 
logical connection  with  the  adjective  '  fit,'  nor  with  the  noun  '  fit'^ 
ballad,  song.  shroud  (75).    Shrouds  are  supporting  ropes  that 

run  from  the  mast-head  to  the  sides  of  the  ship.  vespers  (76)  = 

evenings. 

PART   II. 

'em  (92);  dative  case  =  to  or  for  them.  The  form '«?;«  is  directly 
from  the  Old  English  dative  plural  '  him,'  Middle  English  '  hem.' 
Our  modern  form  '  them'  is  from  '  pam  '  or  '  pam,'  the  dative  plural 
of  the  demonstrative  '  se,  se6,  pfet'(that),  whose  plural  has  entirely 
supplanted  that  of  the  third  personal  pronoun.  When  at  Mt.  Saint 
Jean,  then,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  said  (if  he  did  say),  Up,  Guards, 
AND  AT  'em  !  he  was  not  guilty  of  a  barbarism,  but  was  indulging  a 
laudable  fondness  for  Choicest  Old  English.  uprist  (98).     A 

weak  preterite  :  =  uprose.  See  Whitney,  §§  240,  244.  The  stanza 
beginning  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky  reminds  one  of  some  of 
Turner's  pictures.  This  great  artist,  as  well  as  Coleridge,  had  a  keen 
eye  for  the  subtle  aspects  of  nature  that  hard  and  brilliant  minds 
like  Macaulay's  find  so  uninteresting.     For  similar  touches  see  lines 


92  NOTES    TO    COLERIDGE. 

171-180,  199-200,  263-271/314-326,  36S-372.  death-fires  (128); 

sometimes  called  'fetch-candles'  or  'corpse-candles;'  supposed  to 
portend  the  death  of  the  person  -who  sees  them.  'Another  kind  of 
fiery  apparition  peculiar  to  Wales  .  .  .  appeareth  ...  in  the  lower 
region  of  the  air,  straight  and  long,  not  much  unlike  a  glaive,  mours, 
[mulberry-leaves .']  or  shoots  directly  and  level  .  .  .  but  far  more 
slowly  than  falling  stars.  It  lighteneth  all  the  air  and  ground 
where  it  passeth,  lasteth  three  or  four  miles  or  more,  for  aught  is 
known,  because  no  man  seeth  the  rising  or  beginning  of  it ;  and 
when  it  falls  to  the  ground,  it  sparkleth  and  lighteth  all  about. 
These  commonly  announce  the  death  or  decease  of  freeholders  by 
falling  on  their  lands.  .  .  .'  Brand's  Popular  Antiquities,  iii. 
237- 

PART   III. 

they  for  joy  did  grin  (164).  '  I  took  the  thought  of  '  grinning  for 
joy  '  from  poor  Burnett's  1  remark  to  me  when  we  had  climbed  to  the 
top  of  Plinlimmon,  and  were  nearly  dead  with  thirst.  We  could  not 
speak  from  the  constriction  till  we  found  a  little  puddle  under  a 
stone.  He  said  to  me  :  '  You  grinned  like  an  idiot.'  He  had  done 
the  same.'  —  Coleridge  in  Table-Talk,  May  31,  1830.  the  horned 

Moon  (210).  '  It  is  a  common  superstition  among  sailors  that  some- 
thing evil  is  about  to  happen  whenever  a  star  dogs  the  moon.'  —  Cole- 
ridge. Did  3'ou  ever  see  the  phenomenon  described  in  lines  2 10-2 11 .'' 
Has  Coleridge  made  a  mistake.'' 

PART   IV. 
Lines  226-227  were  written  by  Wordsworth. 

PART   V. 

silly  (297)  =  (originally)  blessed  ;  then,  '  simple-hearted,'  '  guile- 
less,' 'weak,'  'foolish'  and  (as  here)  '  empty,'  '  useless.'  sheen 
(314)  =  bright,  shining.  The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast 
(383).  The  ship  has  now  reached  the  equator,  returning  north.  In 
line  30  she  is  represented  as  having  crossed  the  line,  going  south. 
In  Coleridge's  prose  comment  on  lines  103-106,  he  represents  the 
ship,  at  that  point  of  the  tmrrative,  as  having  reached  the  line, 
going  north.  But  this  is  contradicted  by  lines  328,  335,  367-368, 
373-376,  all  of  which  imply  a  tailing  north  from  the  point  reached 
in  107. 

'  Campbell  (p.  598)  says  '  Berdmore  of  Jesus  Coll.  Cambridge,'  but  gives  no 
authority. 


THE    ANCIENT   MARINER.  93 


PART   VI. 

After  line  475,  in  the  edition  of  1798,  came  these  five  stanzas : 

The  moonlight  bay  was  white  all  o'er, 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

Like  as  of  torches  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  dark-red  shadows  were ; 
But  soon  I  saw  that  my  own  flesh 

Was  red  as  in  a  glare. 

I  turned  my  head  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  by  the  holy  rood, 
The  bodies  had  advanced,  and  now 

Before  the  mast  they  stood. 

They  lifted  up  their  stiff  right  arms, 

They  held  them  straight  and  tight; 
And  each  right-arm  burnt  like  a  torch, 

A  torch  that's  borne  upright. 
Their  stony  eye-balls  glittered  on 

In  the  red  and  smoky  light. 

I  prayed  and  turned  my  head  away. 

Forth  looking  as  before. 
There  was  no  breeze  upon  the  bay, 

No  wave  against  the  shore. 

After  line  503,  in  the  edition  of  1798,  came  this  stanza: 

Then  vanish'd  all  the  lovely  lights ; 

The  bodies  rose  anew : 
With  silent  pace,  each  to  his  place. 

Came  back  the  ghastly  crew. 
The  wind,  that  shade  nor  motion  made. 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

ivy-tod  (535)  =  ivy-bush.      '  Tod'  is  etymologically  the  same  word 
as  the  German  '  Zotte,'  a  tuft  of  hair  or  wool.  a-feared.     The 

prefix  here  is  merely  intensive,  as  in 

'  He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead.' 

Tennyson's  Mariana,  9-11. 


94  NOTES    TO    COLERIDGE. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  (586)  ;  a  line  doubtless  suggested 
bj  the  legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  teach  (590)  =  tell.  The  Old 
English  meaning  of  '  teach  '  is  '  point  out,'  '  show.'  What  loud 

uproar  bursts  from  that  door!  (591).  Notice  with  what  dramatic 
skill  this  poem  is  set.  The  mariner's  tale  —  gloomy,  weird,  super- 
natural—  stands  out  in  compelling  contrast  against  the  scenery  of 
the  bridal  —  cheerful,  domestic,  humanistic.  If  you  look  especially 
at  the  marvellous  way  in  which  the  supernatural  element  is  intro- 
duced, you  will  perhaps  agree  with  me  that  no  poet  —  not  even  the 
mighty  Shakespeare  himself  —  has  so  brought  home  to  us  those 
spiritual  existences  which,  to  a  devout  mind,  attend  our  every  mo- 
ment and  preserve  our  going  out  and  our  coming  in. 


LIFE    OF  BYRON.  95 


LORD    BYRON. 


George  Gordon,  sixth  Baron  Byron  of  Rochdale,  was  born  in  London  in 

1788.  Much  of  his  youth  was  passed  in  Scotland,  where  he  acquired  the  love  ot 
mountain  scenery  that  appears  so  constantly  in  his  poems.  Harrow  and  Cam- 
bridge seem  to  have  done  little  for  him  save  to  excite  in  him  a  loathing  for  the 
pedantry  of  the  schools.  The  Hours  of  Idleness  (1807)  being  savagely  condemned 
by  the  Edinburgh  Review,  Byron  consoled  himself  by  drinking  three  bottles  of 
claret  at  a  sittmg  and  by  writing  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,^  a  satire 
that  contains  some  lines  not  unworthy  of  Pope.  Two  years  on  the  contitient 
(1809-1811)  furnished  the  material  for  the  first  and  second  cantos  of  Childe  Har- 
old, wherein  he  showed  for  the  first  time  his  great  powers  of  idealistic  description. 
Seven  editions  were  sold  within  a  month.  Then  followed  a  long  list  of  lurid 
Oriental  romances  in  verse,  concerning  which  we  must  agree  with  the  author 
when  he  declares  they  show  his  own  want  of  judgment  in  publishing  and  the 
public's  in  reading.  The  same  public  made  itself  equally  ridiculous  by  treating 
Byron  as  the  object  of  a  persistent  lionism ;  this  period  of  heroic  vacuity  in  the 
poet's  life,  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  close  by  differences  arising  from  an  unhappy 
marriage ;  in  1816  he  wisely  left  England  for  Italy,  never  to  return.  The  third  and 
fourth  cantos  of  Childe  Harold  ( 1816  and  1818)  give  us  those  splendid  pictures  of 
the  Rhine,  Switzerland  and  Italy  upon  which  Byron's  reputation  as  a  poet  must 
largely  rest.  His  numerous  dramas,  though  containing  magnificent  lyrical  pas- 
sages, are  all  lacking  in  the  first  essentials  of  a  good  play  —  Action  and  Contrast  of 
Character.  Just  what  it  is  Byron  has  given  us  in  Don  Juan  the  critics  seem  un- 
able to  agree  upon  :  Watkins  has  called  it  the  '  Odyssey  of  Immorality; '  Slielley 
declares  it  to  be  '  Something  wholly  new  and  relative  to  the  age  and  yet  surpass- 
ingly beautiful.'  However  this  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  the  varying  moods  of 
this  poem,  with  its  wonderful  range  of  humor,  passion  and  imagination,  come 
straight  from  Byron's  soul,  which  he  has  here  exposed — as  he  was  too  fond  of 
doing  — to  th*^  gaze  of  the  world.  The  revolt  of  Greece  against  Turkey  enlisted 
his  ardent  sympathies ;  in  1823  he  left  Italy  for  Greece,  where  he  unselfishly 
devoted  his  money,  his  talents  and  his  health  to  the  cause  of  Hellenic  indepen- 
dence. Had  he  lived,  he  bid  fair  to  become  the  Cavour  of  his  age ;  this  glori- 
ous prospect  was  eclipsed  by  death,  which  came  to  him  untimely,  at  Mesolonghi, 
on  the  19th  of  April,  1824. 

No  English  poet  is  so  well  known  on  the  Continent  of  Europe  as  Byron,  nor 
has  any  foreigner  ever  exercised  such  an  influence  as  he  on  the  poetry  of  mod- 
ern France,  Germany  and  Italy. 

Friends.  —  Scott,  Moore,  Sheridan,  Shelley,  Hobhouse,  Trelawny. 

Antipathies.  —  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Castlereagh,  George  iv. 


96  NOTES    TO    BYRON. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Of  the  innumerable  Lives  of  Byron,  few  add  anything 
worth  knowing  to  Moore's.  Byron's  Letters,  contained  therein,  are,  it  seems  to 
me,  the  very  best  letters  in  English.  Shelley' s  Julian  and  Maddalo  is  inesti- 
mably precious  as  a  portrait  by  the  contemporary  who  understood  Byron  best 
and  loved  him  most.  Of  the  shorter  Lives,  Nichol's  (E.  M.  L.)  is  greatly  supe- 
rior both  in  appreciation  and  in  arrangement  to  Noel's  (Gt.  Wr.)  ;  the  latter, 
indeed,  is  written  in  a  style  that  can  be  called  English  only  by  courtesy,  and 
reminds  one  of  Walt  Whitman  at  his  worst.  Irving' s  Abbots  ford  and  Neisistead 
Abbey  gives  a  charming  account  of  his  visit  to  Byron's  ancestral  home.  For  the 
History,  see  Green,  Cap.  X.  Sec.  4;  a.\so,  Spencer  Walpole's  History  of  England, 
Cap.  i.-vl.  The  last  mentioned  author  is  at  home  in  political  and  social 
questions;  when  he  wanders  into  Literature  (Cap.  iv.)  he  is  in  a  foreign  country 
whose  features  he  I-s  able  to  sketch  but  crudely  and  superficially. 

Criticism.  —  Sir  Walter  Scott :  Quarterly  Review,  XVI.IJ2,  and  XIX.  215. 
Over-generous  reviews  of  Childe  Harold,  Cantos  iii.  and  iv.,  and  of  some  of  the 
minor  poems. 

Macaulay:  Moore's  Life  of  Lord  Byron.  Macaulay  was  twenty-four  when 
Byron  died,  and  this  Essay  is  written  with  the  sincerity  and  force  of  a  man  who 
had  experienced  the  poetical  effects  he  describes.  Yet  it  is  chiefly  objective  in  its 
descriptions  and  seldom  gets  at  the  heart  of  things. 

Morley :  Critical  Miscellanies,  Vol.  i. ;  Byron.  A  study  of  Byron  as  the 
spiritual  exponent  of  the  revolutionary  spirit. 

Stvinburne :  Essays  and  Studies  ;  Byron.  Shows  a  sympathetic  insight  into 
tlie  high  qualities  of  Byron's  poetry  such  as  only  a  poet  could  display. 

Swinburne:  Nineteenth  Century  ;  XV.^Sj  and  J64.  IVordszvorth  and  Byron. 
The  first  of  these  articles  is  a  lamentable  exhibition  of  bad  taste  and  bad  temper ; 
it  deluges  Byron  with  a  flood  of  literary  abuse  (drawn  forth  by  Matthew  Arnold's 
preference  for  Byron  over  Shelley).  The  second  article  is  devoted  chiefly  to 
Wordsworth  and  contains  some  sound  criticism  mixed  with  assumptions  of 
critical  authority  that  are  equally  offensive  and  ridiculous. 

Matthew  Arnold:  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series;  Byron.  This  is  the 
article  which  roused  Mr.  Swinburne's  ire  —  although  it  judiciously  praises  Byron, 
in  Mr.  Swinburne's  own  words,  for  '  the  excellence  of  sincerity  and  strength.' 

Andrew  Lang :  Letters  to  Dead  Authors  ;  Lord  Byron.  A  caustic  review  (in 
verse)  of  the  Arnold-Swinburne  controversy. 

Courthope  :  The  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature,  Essays  i.,  iv.  andvi. 
Shows  conclusively  that  the  Arnold-Swinburne  controversy  is  internecine ;  that 
Byron's  permanence  is  due  to  reality  in  description,  feeling  and  style ;  that  the 
final  test  of  classic  poetry  is  not  '  high  seriousness  '  (Arnold)  nor  '  imagination 
and  harmony'  (Swinburne),  but  is  the  extent  and  quality  of  the  pleasure  it 
produces  for  the  imagination  by  means  of  metrical  language. 

For  Continental  criticism,  see  Goethe  ;  Conversations  with  Eckerinann  :  Oct.  ig, 
j82J  ;  Feb.  22,  1824;  May  18, 1824:  Jan.  10,  i82§  ;  Dec.  25,  1825  ;  March  26, 
1826;  Nov.  8,  1826;  June  20,  182J  ;  Dec.  16,  1828.  Taine  ;  History  of  English 
Literature  :  Book  iv.  Cap.  2.  Castelar ;  Vtda  de  Lord  Byron  (t.-anslated  by 
Mrs.  Arthur  Arnold;  London,  1875).  Mazztni ;  Byron  and  Goethe  (in  Vol, 
VI.  of  Mazzini's  Life  and  Writings ;  London,  1S91). 


CHILDE    HAROLHS    PILGRIMAGE.  97 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 

In  his  Preface  to  the  First  and  Second  Cantos  Byron  wrote:  'A  fictitious 
character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of  giving  some  connection  to  the  piece, 
which,  however,  makes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been  suggested  to 
me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinion  I  set  a  liigli  value,  that  in  the  fictitious  charac- 
ter, Childe  Harold,  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real  per- 
sonage :  this  I  beg  leave  once  for  all  to  disclaim ;  —  Harold  is  the  child  of 
imagination,  for  the  purpose  I  have  stated.  .  .  .  It  is  almost  superfluous  to 
mention  that  the  appellation  '  Childe,'  as  'Childe  Waters,'  'Childe  Childers,' 
etc.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old  structure  of  versification  [Spense- 
rian stanza]  which  I  have  adopted." 

Childe  ;  in  Middle  English  ballads  =  a  noble  youth,  a  squire.  Com- 
pare 

Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came, 

in  King  Lear,  iii.  4,  and  Browning's  poem  with  the  same  title. 

MODERN   GREECE. 

1-27.     Tritonia  =  Athene.     CI.  Myths,  pp.  416-417.  Colon- 

na's  cliff  =  Sunium,  the  most  southerly  point  of  Attica.  olive. 

The  olive  was  fabled  to  be  the  gift  of  Athene  (Minerva).  Hymet- 
tus ;  a  mountain  near  Athens  famed  for  marble  and  honey.  Apollo 

=  the  sun.  For  interpretation  of  the  sun-myth,  see  CI.  Myths, 
p.  419.  Mendeli;    a    corruption    of    '  Pentelicus.'    a    mountain 

about  twelve  miles  from  Athens.  Here  are  situated  the  quarries 
whence  came  the  marble  for  the  temples  of  the  city. 

28-54.  Athena's  tower.  This  must  mean  the  Parthenon,  but  it 
would  be  difiicult  to  find  a  more  inappropriate  word  than  tower. 
Marathon.  See  a  History  of  Greece  under  the  year  490  B.C. ;  com- 
pare also  Byron's  Isles  of  Greece,  p.  152  of  this  book.  distant 
Glory  =  glory  to  which  we  look  back  through  a  long  distance  of 
time.  The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow;  a  slovenly 
construction  not  justified  by  the  gain  in  rhetorical  emphasis.  With 
line  49  compare  lines  60-62  of  Gray's  Bard.  the  violated  mound, 
on  the  field  of  Marathon,  where  the  Greeks  who  fell  there  are  said  to 
have  been  buried.  Stanza  xc.  cJosely  resembles  Stanza  xvii.  of  the 
Third  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 

55-81.  voyager  with  th'  Ionian  blast  =  he  who  comes  from  the 
Ionian  Sea   (the    West).  Pallas  =  Wisdom    (for  the  sages) ; 

Muse=  Poetry  (for  the  bards V  Delphi;  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  in 
Phocis  :  CI.  Myths,  p.  420. 


98  NOTES    TO    BYRON. 


VENICE. 

For  the  history  of  Venice  as  interpreted  by  her  art,  see  Ruskin's 
St.  Mark's  Rest;  for  the  Ducal  Palace  in  particular,  see  his  Stones 
of  Venice,  Vol.  ii.  Cap.  8. 

1-27.  The  Bridge  of  Sighs;  too  well  known  by  means  of  photo- 
graphs to  need  description  here.  The  palace  (2)  is  the  DucaL  Pal- 
ace; the  prison,  the  state  prison,  just  across  the  Rio  del  Palazzo. 
'  This  Rio,  or  canal,  is  usually  looked  upon  by  the  traveller  with 
great  respect,  or  even  horror,  because  it  passes  under  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs.  It  is,  however,  one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares  of  the 
city;  and  the  bridge  and  its  canal  together  occupy,  in  the  mind  of  a 
Venetian,  very  much  the  position  of  Fleet  Street  and  Temple 
Bar  in  that  of  a  Londoner,  — at  least,  at  the  time  when  Temple  Bar 
was  occasionally  decorated  with  human  heads.  The  two  buildings 
closely  resemble  each  other  in  foi-m.'  —  Ruskin  :  Stones  of  Venice, 
ii.  8.  when  many  a  subject  land  :  in  the  fifteenth  century.  the 
winged  lion  (of  St.  Mark);  the  emblem  of  Venice.  Cybele; 

pronounced  here  according  to  the  Italian  method,  with  the  accent 
on  the  second  syllable ;  the  classic  form  requires  Cyb'ele. 

Hinc  mater  cultrix  Cybeli  Corybantiaque  aera 
Idaeumque  nemus ;  hinc  fida  silentia  sacris 
Et  juncti  currum  dominae  subiere  leones. 

.^neid  iii.  111-113. 

In  ^neid  vi.  7S5,  we  read  of  her, 

Invehitur  curru  Phrygias  turrita  per  urbes, 

suggesting  Byron's  tiara  of  proud  towers.  In  the  Prado  of  Madrid 
there  is  a  beautiful  statue  of  Cybele  and  her  lions,  embodying  the 
V^ergilian  conceptions  quoted  above.  For  the  attributes  of  the  god- 
dess, see  CI.  Myths,  §  45a.  Tasso  (d.  1595),  author  of  Jerusalem 
Delivered,  the  epic  of  the  Crusades.  Passages  from  this  famous  poem 
took  such  a  strong  hold  upon  the  imagination  of  even  the  common 
people,  that  the  gondoliers  used  to  recite  them  as  they  rowed.  For 
the  Gondolier's  Cry,  see  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  ii.  Appendix  i. 

28-45.  Dogeless.  '  Doge  '  was  the  title  of  the  chief  magistrate  of 
the  Venetian  Republic.  This  office  was  established  in  the  seventh 
century,  and  was  abolished  by  Napoleon  when  he  overthrew  the 
Venetian  Republic  in  1797.  '  Doge'  and  '  Duke '  are  both  from  the 
Latin  'dux.'  Rialto;   'The  best  building  raised  in  the  time  of 

the  Grotesque  Renaissance ;  very  noble  in  its  simplicity,  in  its  pro- 
portions and  its  masoniy.  .  .   ,  The  bridge  was  built  by  Antonio  da 


CHILD E    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE.  99 

Ponte  in  1588.  It  was  anciently  of  wood,  with  a  drawbridge  in  the 
centre.  .  .  .  the  traveller  should  observe  that  the  interesting 
effect  both  of  this  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  depends  in  great  part 
on  their  both  being  more  than  bridges ;  the  one  a  covered  passage, 
Uie  other  a  row  of  shops,  sustained  on  an  arch.'  —  Venetian  Index  to 
the  Stones  of  Venice,  article  '  Rialto.'  See,  also,  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice, iii.  Pierre;  the  heroic  character  in  Otwaj's  Venice  Pre- 
served. See  note  on  Pope's  Epistle  to  Augustus,  278.  that 
which  =  bright  and  cheerful  thoughts.  these  spirits  =  these 
ideal  creations  of  the  imagination.  what  we  hate;  i.e.,  the 
hard,  dull  lot  of  commonplace  existence.  With  the  sentiment  of 
this  passage  compare 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  v.  i. 

46-63.  The  spouseless  Adriatic.  The  prosperity  of  Venice  was 
based  upon  her  commerce ;  this  fact  was  symbolized  by  the  cere- 
mony known  as  The  Marriage  of  the  Adriatic,  wherein  the  Doge 
cast  a  ring  into  the  sea.  The  vessel  in  which  he  was  conveyed  to 
the  appointed  place  was  called  the  Bucentaur.  St.  Mark  yet  sees 

his  lion  .  .  .  stand,  where  he  stands  to-day,  in  the  Piazetta  west 
of  the  Ducal  Palace.  '  .  .  .  that  noble  winged  lion,  one  of  the 
grandest  things  produced  by  mediaeval  art,  which  all  men  admire 
and  none  can  draw.  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  faithful  represen- 
tation of  his  firm,  fierce  and  fiery  strength.'  —  Ruskin  :  Stones  of 
Venice,  iii.  Appendix  10.  Emperor  (52);  Suabian  (55)  :  Fred- 

erick Barbarossa,  who  attempted  to  enforce  his  authority  over  the 
cities  of  northern  Italy  (the  Lombard  League),  but  was  defeated  by 
them  at  the  battle  of  Legnano  (1176).  Sismondi  calls  this  'the 
first  and  most  noble  struggle  ever  maintained  by  the  nations  of 
modern  Europe  against  despotism.'  The  Pope,  Alexander  iii.,  had 
sided  with  the  League,  and  to  him  the  Emperor  made  submission  in 
Venice,  the  year  after  the  battle.  the    Austrian.    Venice   was 

under  Austrian  rule  from  1797  to  1805,  and  from  1814  to  1866.  For 
the  condition  of  Venetian  society  during  the  last  days  of  the  Aus- 
trian occupation,  see  Howells'  delightful  Venetian  Days.  lauwine 
(German)  =  avalanche.  Dandolo.     There  wei-e  several  distin- 

guished Doges  of  this  name ;  the  one  here  referred  to  is  Enrico 
Dandolo,  who,  though  old  and  blind,  led  the  men  of  the  fourth 
Crusade  to  the  capture  of  Constantinople  in  1204. 


100  NOTES    TO    BYRON. 


64-81.  Doria:  Pietro  Doria,  a  Genoese  admiral  who  told  the 
Venetians,  when  thej  sued  him  for  peace  in  1379,  that  they  should 
have  no  peace  until  a  rein  was  put  upon  their  unbridled  horses  on 
the  porch  of  St.  Mark's.  These  four  bronze  horses  A\ere  brought 
to  Venice  from  Constantinople  by  Enrico  Dandolo ;  they  are  sup- 
posed to  date  from  the  time  of  Nero.  Napoleon  took  them  to  Paris, 
where  they  adorned  his  triumphal  arch  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 
At  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  they  were  returned  to  Venice, 
byword  =  a  word  used  proverbially.  Th°  word  referred  to  is  '  Pan- 
taloon,' which  Byron  explains  in  the  next  line  as  derived  from 
(Italian)  ^/rtw/rtr,  '  plant,' -j- /eo«(?,  'lion.'  This  etymology  is  of 
doubtful  value.  A  more  probable  explanation  of  '  Pantaloon  '  is 
from  S.  Pantaleone  (-af  {jravr-')  -\-  /Juv),  the  patron  saint  of  Venice. 
The  subsequent  history  of  this  word  was  probably:  (i)  a  common 
name  among  Venetians  of  the  lower  orders  ;  (2)  any  low-born  foolish 
fellow;   (3)  a  foolish  old  man  in  Italian  comedy.  Candia,  in 

Crete,  was  held  by  the  Venetians  against  the  Turks  for  twent\  -four 
years  ;  Troy  was  besieged  for  but  ten.  Lepanto;  the  great  sea- 

fight  (1571)  in  which  the  Turks  were  defeated  by  Don  John  of 
Austria.  The  Venetian  fleet  under  Sebastiano  Veniero  contributed 
largely  to  the  success  of  that  day. 

82-99.  Syracuse.  By  the  failure  of  her  ill-advised  expedition 
against  the  Dorian  city  of  Syracuse,  Athens  was  irretrievably 
ruined  and  the  supremacy  of  Greece  passed  to  Sparta  (413  B.C.). 
'  Several  [of  the  Athenian  captives]  were  saved  for  the  sake  of 
Euripides,  whose  poetry,  it  appears,  was  in  request  among  the 
Sicilians  more  than  among  any  of  the  settlers  out  of  Greece.  And 
when  any  travellers  arrived  that  could  tell  them  some  passage,  or 
give  them  any  specimen  of  his  verses,  they  were  delighted  to  be  able 
to  communicate  them  to  one  another.  Many  of  the  captives  who 
got  safe  back  to  Athens  are  said,  after  they  reached  home,  to  have 
gone  and  made  their  acknowledgments  to  Euripides,  relating  how 
that  some  of  them  had  been  released  from  their  slavery  by  teaching 
what  they  could  remember  of  his  poems,  and  others,  when  strag- 
gling after  the  fight,  had  been  relieved  with  meat  and  drink  for 
repeating  some  of  his  lyrics.  Nor  need  this  be  an\-  wonder,  for  it  is 
told  that  a  ship  of  Caunus,  fleeing  into  one  of  their  harbors  for  pro- 
tection, pursued  by  pirates,  was  not  received,  but  forced  back,  till 
one  asked  if  they  knew  any  of  Euripides'  verses,  and  on  their  saying 
they  did,  they  were  admitted  and  their  ship  brought  into  harbor.'  — 
Plutarch  :  Life  of  Nicias.  Upon  the  incident  referred  to  in  the  last 
sentence,  Browning  has  founded  his  Balaustion's  Adventure  (p.  253 
of  this  book). 


CHILDE    HAROLUS   PILGRIMAGE.  101 

100-117.  shameful  .  .  .  most  of  all,  Albion  !  to  thee.  One  of 
the  finest  things  about  Byron  is  his  perpetual  protest  against  that 
self-satisfied  Philistinism,  moral,  social  and  intellectual,  into  which 
the  English  settled  down  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  In  the  dedica- 
tion of  this  Fourth  Canto  to  his  friend  Hobhouse,  he  writes  :  '  And 
when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the 
simple  lament  of  the  labourers'  chorus,  '  Roma !  Roma !  Roma ! 
Roma  non  e  piu  come  era  prima'  [Rome!  'tis  not  now  as  in  former 
days],  it  was  diliicult  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the 
bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the  Lon- 
don taverns  over  the  carnage  of  Mount  St.  Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of 
Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France.    .    .    .'  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller, 

Shakespeare  :  '  Venice  Preserved  ;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  ;  The  Ghost- 
Seer  or  Armenian;  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Othello.'  —  Byron. 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  was  never  in  such  good  company  before,  and  was 
probably  as  much  surprised  as  we  are  when  she  saw  her  name  coupled 
with  Shakespeare's. 

CASCATA   DEL   MARMORE. 

About  fifty  miles  north-east  of  Rome  and  near  the  little  city  of 
Terni,  the  Velino  breaks  down,  in  three  leaps,  through  a  distance  of 
some  650  feet,  thus  forming  the  Cascata  del  Marmore,  or  Marble 
Cascade.  The  rainbow  mentioned  in  Stanza  Ixxii.  is  formed  at  the 
central  fall.  In  a  note  on  Stanza  Ixxi.  Byron  writes:  'I  saw  the 
Cascata  del  Marmore  of  Terni  twice,  at  different  periods  —  once 
from  the  summit  of  the  precipice,  and  again  from  the  valley  below. 
The  lower  view  is  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the  traveller  has  time  for  one 
only;  but  in  any  point  of  view,  either  from  above  or  below,  it  is 
worth  all  the  torrents  and  cascades  of  Switzerland  put  together.  .  .  .' 
Phlegethon,  in  tlie  Hellenic  mythology,  is  a  river  of  fire  in  the  Under- 
world. 

In  this  description  Byron  is  at  his  best.  His  restless  spirit  sympathizes  with 
the  rush  and  whirl  of  the  falling  waters ;  their  mad  uproar  finds  a  responsive 
echo  in  his  own  wild  heart ;  he  is  uplifted  to  a  true  poetic  ecstasy  and  in 

Love  watching'  Madness  with  unalterable  mien 
he  rises  to  what  may  fairly  be  called  The  Sublime. 

THE   COLISEUM. 

1-18.  The  Gladiator;  referring  to  the  famous  statue  long  known 
as  The  Dying  Gladiator,  but  now  correctly  designated  The  Dying 


102  NOTES    TO    BYRON-. 


Gaul.  This  masterpiece  was  found  at  Rome  in  the  sixteenth  centurvj 
and  is  now  in  the  Capitoline  Museum ;  in  the  same  room  stands 
the  Satyr  of  Praxiteles,  which  suggested  Hawthorne's  Marble  Faun. 
See  his  Italian  Note  Book  for  April  22,  1858.  Consents  to  death, 
but  conquers  agony.  What  a  world  of  heroic  resignation  and  daunt- 
less courage  does  this  display  to  the  imagination  !  Professor  G.  H. 
Howison  tells  me  that  for  artistic  condensation  of  a  vast  moral  mean- 
ing he  thinks  it  would  be  hard  to  match  this  line  in  the  poetry  of  the 
world.  Dacian.  The  outlying  province  of  Dacia,  on  the  northern 

bank  of  the  Danube,  was  a  fertile  source  of  supply  for  the  Roman 
Munus  Gladiatorlnm.  Notice  the  modified  survival  of  this  inhuman 
institution  in  the  Spanish  Bull-Fight,  in  the  English  Prize-Ring 
and  (shall  we  say  it?)  in  American   Foot-Bali.  Goths.     Thev 

sacked  Rome  under  Alaric  in  410  A.D. 

19-45.  the  ways  :  the  passages  that  led  to  the  seats  of  the  Coliseum, 
the  playthings  of  a  crowd.  When  the  victor  in  a  gladiatorial  com- 
bat had  disabled  or  disarmed  his  foe,  he  appealed  to  the  spectators 
to  know  Avhether  he  should  slay  or  spare  the  vanquished.  If  the 
mob  desired  to  witness  a  death-scene, — as  they  generally  did, — 
they   turned    their   thumbs    towards  their   breasts    (up).  '  the 

loops  of  time:  the  envious  rents  which  time  has  made.  Like 

laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head;  a  most  unsavory  simile,  de- 
grading instead  of  elevating  the  subject.  Byron's  note  on  this  line 
is  interesting  as  history,  but  does  not  mend  his  poetry.  He  says  : 
'  Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  was  particularly  gratified 
by  that  decree  of  the  Senate  which  enabled  him  to  wear  a  wreath 
of  laurel  on  all  occasions.  He  was  anxious,  not  to  show  that  he  was 
the  conqueror  of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that  he  was  bald.  A  stran- 
ger at  Rome  would  hardly  have  guessed  at  the  motive,  nor  should 
we  without  the  help  of  the  historian.'  this  magic  circle;  a  meta- 
phor from  Witchcraft. 

46-54.  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  etc.  '  Qiiamdiu  stabit  Colyseus. 
stabit  et  Roma;  quando  cadet  Colyseus,  cadet  Roma;  quando 
cadet  Roma,  cadet  et  mundus  (Beda  in  Excerptis  seu  Collectaneis 
apud  Ducange  Gloss,  med.  et  infimae  Latinitatis,  tom.  ii.  p.  407, 
edit.  Basil).  This  saying  must  be  attributed  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
pilgrims  who  visited  Rome  before  the  year  735,  the  aera  of  Bede's 
death  ;  for  I  do  not  believe  that  our  venerable  monk  ever  passed  the 
sea.'  —  Gibbon  :  Decline  and  Fall,  Cap.  Ixxxi.,  Note  52. 


'Query:  In  G6r6me's  famous  picture,  are  not  the  thumbs  turned  the 
wrong  way?  See  the  authorities  as  cited  by  Mayor  in  his  note  on  Juvenal 
iii.  96. 


CHILD E    HAROLUS   PILGRIMAGE.  103 


THE    COLISEUM   BY    MOONLIGHT. 

1-7.  These  lines  refer  to  the  scenerv  of  the  Higher  Alps,  upon 
which  Manfred  gazes  from  his  castle. 

8-45.  the  blue  midnight.  The  vault  of  heaven,  with  the  moon 
shining  on  it,  looked  blue  contrasted  with  the  trees,  which  looked 
black.  Shnilarlj,  trees  that  intervene  between  us  and  the  setting 
sun  look  black,  not  green.  the  Caesars'  palace.     West  of  the 

Coliseum  rises  the  Palatine  Hill,  with  ruins  of  the  palaces  of  Augus- 
tus, Tiberius  and  Caligula. 

Notice  with  what  beautiful  pathos  the  poet  interprets  for  us  the  associations 
of  the  past.  Remove  the  human  element  from  this  description  and  more  than 
half  the  charm  is  lost.  Compare  this  description  with  an  account  of  the 
Coliseum  in  Baedeker  or  in  Murray,  and  we  see  that  Idealism  is  truer  than 
Realism. 

ST.    PETER'S. 

1-9.  the  dome  =  the  building.  See  note  on  this  word  in  The 
Deserted  Village,  319.  The  original  design  of  St.  Peter's  was  by 
Bramante.  The  corner  stone  was  laid  in  1506,  and  the  church  was 
consecrated  in  1626.  Among  the  distinguished  architects  employed 
upon    it  was    Michael    Angelo.  Diana's  marvel.     The  temple 

of  Diana  at  Ephesus,  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  antiquity.  For  a 
vivid  portraval  of  the  feeling  of  the  Greeks  towards  this  shrine,  see 
Acts  xix.  23-41.  his  martyr's  tomb.     The  church  is  built  on  the 

site  of  the  Circus  of  Nero,  where  St.  Peter  is  said  to  have  suffered 
martydom.  Sophia.     The  mosque  of  St  .Sophia  in  Constanti- 

nople, forme;!;/  a  Christian  church.  The  length  of  this  building  is 
354  feet;  of  Milan  Cathedral,  444  feet;  of  St.  Paul's  in  London,  510 
feet;  of  St.  Peter's,  639  feet;  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  751 
feet. 

10-36.  Zion's  desolation.  Jerusalem  was  taken  by  Titus  in  70 
A.D.  only  find  a  fit  abode  =  find  only  a  fit  abode.     This  un- 

fortunate word  '  only'  is  abused  by  more  careful  writers  than  Byron. 
so  defined  =^  just  as  clearly.  '  See '  must  be  supplied  after  '  now.' 
dome  (34)  must  refer  specifically  to  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  con- 
structed from  designs  by  Michael  Angelo.  Its  diameter  is  138  feet; 
from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  the  cross  is  435  feet. 

37-45.     That  ask  the  eye=  That  demand  your  attention. 

46-54.  About  half  of  this  slovenly  stanza  needs  to  be  translated 
into  English.  The  meaning  (such  as  it  is)  seems  to  be  :  Just  as  the 
most    intense   feeling   outstrips  expression,  so  this    mighty  edifice 


104  NOTES    TO    BYRON. 

baffles  the  foolish  gaze  that  ■would  pierce  its  mysteries ;  being  so 
great,  it  cannot  be  grasped  in  its  entirety  by  us  little  men  until,  etc. 
It  is  curious  to  notice  how  Byron,  as  soon  as  he  gets  away  from  the 
objective  and  concrete  and  begins  to  analyze,  becomes  not  only  dull, 
but  sometimes  even  ungrammatical. 

55-63.  Line  60  utters  a  doubtful  truth.  Judging  by  what  they 
did  accomplish,  there  is  nothing  in  St.  Peter's  which  the  architects 
of  Greece  and  Rome  could  not  have  accomplished  had  they  chosen 
to; — but  they  chose  to  accomplish  better  things.  For  the  impres- 
sion made  by  St.  Peter's  upon  Hawthorne,  see  his  Italian  Note  Book 
for  1S5S;   Feb.   7  and   19,  March  27,  April   10.  can  (63)  ^  are 

able  to  accomplish. 

THE    OCEAN. 

Byron's  love  of  the  ocean  dates  from  childhood.  He  was  a  daring  swimmer 
and  many  instances  are  recorded  of  his  achievements  in  that  line,  such  as  his 
swimming  the  Hellespont  to  see  if  Leander  could  have  done  it.  He  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  sailing  the  bluc^gean  ;  in  this  Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  he  has 
given  voice  to  those  feelings  of  awe  and  sublimity  which  the  ocean  brings  to  all 
who  love  it,  but  which  no  poet  has  ever  expressed  so  well  as  he. 

1-27.  unknelled,  uncofhn'd  and  unknown  (iS).  An  echo  from 
Hamlet  i.  5,  76-77  : 

Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 
Unhouseled,  disappointed,  unaneled. 

Spurning  him  to  the  skies  (23).  Compare  Vergil's  description  of 
the  fleet  of  ^Eneas  in  a  storm  off  the  coast  of  Sicily : 

Tollimur  in  caelum  curvato  gurgite  et  idem 
Subducta  ad  Manes  imos  desedimus  unda. 
Ter  scopuli  clamorem  inter  cava  saxa  dedere ; 
Ter  spumam  elisam  et  rorantia  vidimus  astra. 

^neid,  iii.  564-567. 

lay  (27).  This  verb  is  the  causal  of  '  lie ;  '  as  used  in  this  Hne  it 
is  an  indefensible  solecism. 

28-81.  Armada;  Trafalgar  (36).  Consult  a  History  of  England 
under  the  _\ears  1588  and  1805.  Thy  waters  washed  them  power 

(39).  In  the  first  edition  this  line  was  printed  by  mistake,  '  Thy 
waters  wasted  them,'  and  the  error  has  been  repeated  in  many  sub- 
sequent editions.  sandal  (79).  The  sandal  is  of  Oriental 
origin  and  hence  became  associated  with  pilgrimages  to  the  Holy 
Sepulchre;  for  scallop-shell,  see  Brewer  under  that  title,  and  com- 
pare the  description  of  the  Palmer  in  Marmion,  i.  27, 


THE    ISLES    OF    GREECE.  105 

The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck, 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 

Was  from  Loretto  brought ; 
His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip  he  wore ; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand 
Show'd  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

THE    ISLES    OF   GREECE. 

For  an  account  of  the  struggle  for  Greek  independence,  see  Miiller's  Political 
History  of  Recent  Times,  Period  i.  \  5. 

1-6.  Sappho ;  the  lyric  poetess  of  Lesbos,  who  flourished  in  the 
seventh  century  B.C.  Only  fragments  of  her  poetry  have  come 
down  to  us.  Some  idea  of  her  sentiment  and  rhythm  may  be  gained 
from  the  following  translation  (Symonds)  of  lier  Ode  to  Anactoria. 

Peer  of  gods  he  seemeth  to  me,  the  blissful 
Man  who  sits  and  gazes  at  thee  before  him. 
Close  beside  thee  sits,  and  in  silence  hears  thee 

Silverly  speaking. 
Laughing  love's  low  laughter.     Oh  this,  this  only 
Stirs  the  troubled  heart  in  my  breast  to  tremble! 
For  should  I  but  see  thee  a  little  moment, 

Straight  is  my  voice  hushed ; 
Yea,  my  tongue  is  broken,  and  through  and  through  me 
'Neath  the  flesh  impalpable  fire  runs  tingling; 
Nothing  see  mine  eyes,  and  a  noise  of  roaring 

Waves  in  my  ear  sounds; 
Sweat  runs  down  in  rivers,  a  tremor  seizes 
All  my  limbs,  and  paler  than  grass  in  autumn 
Caught  by  pains  of  menacing  death,  I  falter 

Lost  in  the  love-trance. 

Compare  Tennyson's  imitation  in  his  Eleanore.  Delos,  in  the 

yEgean  Sea,  the  birth-place  of  Phoebus  Apollo,  was  fabled  to  have 
risen  from  the  sea.  See  the  ^neid,  iii.  73-77,  and  Spenser's  Fairy 
Qvieen,  11,  xii,  13. 

7-42.  Scian.  Scio  (Chios)  is  one  of  the  seven  cities  that  claimed 
the  honor  of  being  the  birth-place  of  Homer.  Teian.  Anacreon 
the  lyric  poet  (sixth  century  B.C.)  was  born  at  Teos  in  Asia  Minor. 
See  line  63.  Islands  of  the  Blest.     The  classic  tradition  about 

the  Islands  of  the  Blest  may  have  been  based  upon  the  tale  of  some 
adventurous  trader  who  got  as  far  as  Madeira  or  the  Azores.  Mara- 
thon. See  note  on  this  word  in  Childe  Harold,  ii.  78.  Salamis; 
Thermopylae.     Consult  a  History  of  Greece  under  the  year  4S0  B.C. 


106  NOTES    TO    BYRON. 

43-48.  Byron's  consecration  to  the  cause  of  Greek  independence 
proves  how  sincerely  he  felt  these  lines.  Thev  were  written  only 
three  years  before  his  death ;  five  years  after  that  event,  by  the  aid 
of  England,  France  and  Russia,  Greece  regained  her  freedom. 

49-72.  Pyrrhic  dance ;  said  to  be  named  from  the  inventor  Pyr- 
rhicus.  It  is  accompanied  by  the  flute  and  is  intended  to  imitate 
the  motions  of  a  combatant.  Pyrrhic  phalanx;  so  called  from 

Pyrrhus  (=  The  Red-haired)  King  of  Epirus.  See  the  History  of 
Rome  under  the  years  281-275  B.C.  Cadmus,  is  fabled  to  have 

brought  the  alphabet  from  Egypt  to  Greece.  This  story  coitc- 
sponds  with  the  teachings  of  Comparative  Alphabetics.  Poly- 

crates  :  Tyrant  (Prince)  of  Samos,  a  generous  patron  of  the  Arts 
and  of  Letters.  Miltiades :  Commander  of  the  Greek  army  at 

Marathon. 

73-96.     Suli;   Parga;   in  Epirus.  Doric  ^  Spartan.  Her- 

acleidan  blood  =  the  heroic  race  descended  from  Herakles  (Hercu- 
les). There  may  be  an  allusion  here  to  the  myth  of  the  Heracleidae. 
the  Franks  =  the  French.  a  king:  Louis  xviii. 

HEBREW   :SIELODIES. 

With  these  two  little  lyrics,  each  indicative  of  a  constantly  recurring  mood,  wc 
may  appropriately  close  our  study  of  Byron. 

'  Farewell,  thou  Titan  fairer  than  the  Gods! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  swift  and  lovely  spirit, 
Thou  splendid  warrior  with  the  world  at  odds, 

Unpraised,  unpraisable,  beyond  thy  merit; 
Chased,  like  Orestes,  by  the  Furies'  rod 

Like  him  at  length  thy  peace  dost  thou  inherit; 
Beholding  whom,  men  think  how  fairer  far 
Than  all  the  steadfast  stars  the  wandering  star.' 

(Andrew  Lang.) 


LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGKAl'IIY.  107 


JOHN    KEATS. 


John  Keats,  the  son  of  a  livery-stable  keeper,  was  born  in  London  in  1795. 
He  was  removed  from  school  at  fifteen  and  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon.  His 
imaginative  faculties  were  roused  by  reading  the  Faerie  Queene,  and  when  he 
came  of  age  he  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  Literature.  Cowden-Clarke  and 
Leigh  Hunt  early  discovered  his  genius;  the  latter  published  the  Sonnet  on 
Chapman' s  Homer  in  The  Examiner,  Dec.  i,  1816.  Keats'  first  volume  of  poems 
(1817)  attracted  little  attention  —  which  is  not  wonderful  when  we  remember  that 
Scott  and  Byron  were  publishing  at  this  time.  Endymion  (1818)  is  Greek  only 
in  its  central  conception  of  Beauty  as  a  thing  to  be  worshipped.  In  execution  it 
is  Gothic :  like  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  it  runs 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

Blackwood's  and  The  Quarterly  descended  like  mastodons  on  this  poem,  tearing 
up  its  luxuriant  over-growth  and  trampling  under  foot  the  tender  flowerets  that 
gave  promise  of  so  glorious  a  summer.  Financial  troubles,  his  own  delicate 
health,  the  death  of  a  brother  and  a  distracting  love-affair  tightened  the  strain 
upon  Keats'  sensitive  nature,  already  overwrought.  While  struggling  against 
these  ills,  he  produced  his  most  beautiful  work,  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  the 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale  and  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  After  many  experiments, 
he  had  at  length  found  subjects  suited  to  the  display  of  his  peculiar  genius.  To 
what  more  aerial  heights  he  might  have  soared,  we  can  only  in  sorrow  conject- 
ure. Consumption  laid  upon  him  its  cruel  grasp ;  the  unfinished  Hyperion  is 
his  swan-song.  A  voyage  to  Italy  gave  no  relief;  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his 
age,  in  the  Eternal  City  he  closed  his  eyes  in  easeful  death.  He  was  buried  '  in 
the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the  pyra- 
mid which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now  mould- 
ering and  desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery  is 
an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter  with  violets  and  daisies.  It 
might  make  one  in  love  with  death  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so 
sweet  a  place.'  > 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  The  tendency  of  this  generation  to  think  over-highly  of 
Keats  and  his  work  comes  out  plainly  in  Sidney  Calvin' s  Keats  (E.  M.  L.),  which 

1  Shelley:  Preface  to  Adonais. 


108  NOTES    TO    KEATS. 

ranks  him  by  power,  temperament  and  aim  as  '  the  most  Shakespearean  spirit 
that  has  lived  since  Shakespeare.'  Rossetti's  Keats  (Gt.  Wr.)  is  more  judicious 
in  tone  and  contains  a  more  critical  examination  of  the  quality  of  Keats'  verse. 
Those  who  wish  to  make  a  study  of  Keats  at  first  hand  must  consult  The  Poet- 
ical Works  and  Other  Writings  of  John  Keats,  edited  by  H.  Buxton  Forman  : 
4  vols,  and  supplement ;  London,  1889-1890. 

Criticism.  — Leigh  Hunt's  Principal  Reviews  of  Keats  are  to  be  found  as 
follows:  (i)  First  Volume  of  Poems  (1817)  in  Forman  i.;  (2)  The  Stories  of 
Lamia,  The  Pot  of  Basil,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  etc.,  in  Forman  ii. ;  Memoir 
of  Keats  \n  Forman  iv. ;  Selections  fro)n  Keats,  with  Critical  Notice  m  Hunt's 
Imagination  and  Fancy. 

Shelley  :  Adonais  ;  An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John  Keats.  In  reading  this 
impassioned  monody  it  must  be  remembered  that  Shelley  was  misinformed  as 
to  the  immediate  cause  of  Keats'  death.  Scattered  through  Shelley's  Letters 
are  many  references  to  Keats.     These  are  indexed  in  Forman  iv. 

DeQuincey  :  Notes  on  Gilfillan's  Literary  Portraits  ;  John  Keats.  Ten  pages 
devoted  to  Horace,  Lucretius,  Johnson,  Addison  and  Homer;  six  pages  to 
Keats.  Condemns  unsparingly  the  affectations  and  solecisms  of  Endymion,  but 
speaks  highly  of  Hyperion.  The  latter  poem  is  also  touched  on  in  DeQuincey 's 
Milton  V.  Southey  and  Landor . 

Matthew  Arnold :  Essays  in  Criticistn,  Second  Series;  John  Keats.  Brings 
out  finely  what  is  best  in  Keats  as  a  man,  and  dwells  upon  his  power  of  '  nat- 
uralistic interpretation.' 

Lowell :  Among  my  Books,  Second  Series ;  Keats.  Written  in  1856  and 
chiefly  biographical ;  a  great  deal  of  this  essay  has  therefore  been  superseded  by 
more  recent  works.  In  concluding,  Lowell  claims  for  Keats  'more  of  the  pene- 
trative and  sympathetic  imagination  which  belongs  to  the  poet,  of  that  imagina- 
tion which  identifies  itself  with  the  momentary  object  of  its  contemplation,  than 
any  man  of  these  later  days.' 

Courthopc  :  The  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature ;  Essay  V.  '  With 
his  brilliant  pictorial  fancy  [Keats]  was  able  to  conjure  up  before  his  mind's  eye 
all  those  forms  of  the  Pagan  world  which  were,  by  his  own  confession,  invisible 
to  Wordsworth ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  actual  strife  of  men,  to  the  clash 
and  conflict  of  opinion,  to  the  moral  meaning  of  the  changes  in  social  and  politi- 
cal life,  he  was  blind  or  indifferent.' 

See  also  Bibliography  on  Shelley  and  Wordsworth. 


THE   EVE    OF  ST.    AGNES. 

The  legend  of  St.  Agnes  tells  us  that  she  was  a  Roman  virgin  of  noble  family 
who  suffered  martyrdom  in  the  fourth  century.  The  21st  of  January  was  sacred 
lo  her,  and  it  was  believed  that  on  the  eve  of  that  day,  maidens,  by  fasting, 
might  get  sight  of  their  future  husbands. 

1-9.     for  =  in  spite  of.  his  frosted  breath.     'The  breath  of 

tiic  pilgrim,  likened  to  pious  incense  ...  is  a  simile  in  admira- 
ble '  keeping,'  as  the  painters  call  it;  that  is  to  say,  is  thoroughly 
harmonious  with  itself  and  all  that  is  going  on.     The  breath  of  the 


THE    EVE    OF   ST.    AGNES.  109 

pilgrim  is  visible,  so  is  that  of  a  censer;  his  object  is  religious,  and 
so  is  the  use  of  the  censer;  the  censer,  after  its  fashion,  maj  be 
said  to  praj,  and  its  breath,  like  the  pilgrim's,  ascends  to  heaven. 
Young  students  of  poetry  may,  in  this  image  alone,  see  what  imag- 
ination is,  under  one  of  its  most  poetical  forms,  and  how  thoroughly 
it  '  tells.'  There  is  no  part  of  it  unfitting.  It  is  not  applicable  in  one 
point,  and  the  reverse  in  another.'  — -Hunt. 

10-18.  purgatorial  rails.  '.  .  .  most  felicitous  [is]  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  Catholic  idea  in  the  word  '  purgatorial.'  The  very  color 
of  the  rails  if.  made  to  assume  a  meaning  and  to  shadow  forth  the 
gloom  of  the  punishment.'  —  Hunt.  ache    in    icy    hoods   and 

mails.     '  Most  wintry  as  well  as  penitential.     .     .     .'  —  Hunt. 

19-45.  flattered  =  softened,  soothed.  Hunt's  rhapsody  on  this 
word  seems  a  trifle  far-fetched.  their  pride  =  their  proud  array, 

the  brain,  new-stuffed  with  triumphs  gay.     Compare  II  Penseroso, 

5-8. 

46-72.     couch  =  cause  to    recline.     The  diction  here    and  in    the 

preceding  stanza  shows  suggestions  of  Romeo  and  Juliet —  Keats' 

favorite  Shakespearean   play.     See  Act  ii.  Sc.  3,  lines  37-38  of  that 

play: 

And  where  unbruised  youth  with  unstuffed  brain 
Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth  reign. 

Indeed  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  thrills  with  the  same  high-wrought 
emotion  that  throbs  and  glows  throughout  the  Balcony-Scene  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  train  (58).  '  I  do  not  use  train  for  '  concourse 
of  passers  by,'  but  for  '  skirts'  sweeping  along  the  floor.'  —  Keats; 
Letter    to    Taylor,    11    June,     1820.  Hoodwinked  ^  blinded, 

faery  fancy  =  fancies  of   Fairyland.  amort  =  deadened  :  a  cor- 

ruption of  a  la  mort,  '  to  the  death.'     Compare 

How  fares  my  Kate  ?     What,  sweeting,  all  amort  ? 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  iv.  3,  36. 

her  lambs  unshorn  (71).  'In  the  Catholic  church  formerly  the 
nuns  useci  to  bring  a  .couple  of  lambs  to  her  altar  during  mass.'  — 
Hunt. 

73-105.  beldame  (90).  The  prefix  in  this  word,  though  etymo- 
^ogically  cognate  with  the  Frencli  'beau,'  'belle'  (beautiful),  was 
regularly  used  in  Middle  English  to  indicate  secondary  i-elationship  : 
thus,  (^e/^rtwe  =  grandmother ;  /;f?/.s/r«  =  grandfather.  This  usage 
is  also  discernible  in  Modern  French  :  '  beau-fils  '=  son-in-law ; 
'  beau-fr^re'  =  brother-in-law.  Gossip  (105).     On  this  word  as 


110  NOTES    TO    KEATS. 


text,  Archbishop  Trench  preaches  a  delightful  sermonette,  in  Eng- 
lish Past  and  Present,  Lecture  iv. 

106-135.  a  little  moonlight  room.  '  The  poet  does  not  make  his 
•  little  moonlight  room  '  comfortable,  observe.  The  high  taste  of  the 
exordium  is  kept  up.  All  is  still  wintry.  There  is  to  be  no  comfort 
in  the  poem,  but  what  is  given  by  lo\e.  All  else  may  be  left  to  the 
cold  walls.'  — Hunt.  St.  Agnes' wool.     See  note   on   line   71. 

liege-lord  of  ail  the  Elves  and  Fays:  Oberon.  brook,    seems 

inaccurately  used  for  'restrain'  or  'refrain  from.'  Keats'  earlier 
poems  abound  with  such  inaccuracies,  and  they  justly  aroused 
DeQviincey's  wrath.  Tears.     '  He  almost  shed  tears  of  sympa- 

thy to  think  how  his  treasure  is  exposed  to  the  cold;  and  of  delight 
and  pride  to  think  of  her  sleeping  beauty  and  her  love  for  himself. 
This  passage  '  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old '  is  in  the  highest  imagi- 
native taste,  fusing  together  the  imaginative  and  the  spiritual,  the 
remote  and  the  near.'  —  Hunt. 

136-171.  Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose.  Both 
the  color  and  the  perfectness  of  the  full-blown  rose  enter  into  this 
comparison.  passing-bell.     The  church-bell,  tolled  at  the  death 

of  a  parishioner,  for  the  purpose  of  frightening  away  the  evil  spirits 
that  would  seize  the  departing  soul. 

When  the  passing-bell  doth  toll 

And  the  furies  in  a  shoal 

Come  to  fight  a  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

Herrick :  Litanie  to  the  Holy  Spirit,  21-24. 

the  monstrous  debt,  '  was  his  monstrous  existence,  which  he  owed  to 
a  demon  and  repaid  when  he  died  or  disappeared  through  the  work- 
ing of  one  of  his  own  spells  by  Viviane.'  —  Forman,  ii.  84.  For  the 
storm  referred  to  in  line  170,  see  Tennyson's  Merlin  and  Vivien  (near 

the  end)  : 

.     .     .    ever  overhead 
Bellovv'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten  branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river  rain 
Above  them ;  and  in  change  of  glare  and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and  came; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion  spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once  more 
To  peace. 

172-198.  a  missioned  spirit:  a  spirit  sent  {mi(fo)  to  aid  the  aged 
woman.  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled  =  a  ring-dove  which  has  been 
fri<rhtened  and  has  fled. 


THE    EVE    OF   ST.   AGNES.  Ill 

199-207.  Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died.  '  This  is  a 
verse  in  the  taste  of  Chaucer,  full  of  minute  grace  and  truth.  The 
smoke  of  the  wax  taper  seems  almost  as  ethereal  and  fair  as  the 
moonlight,  and  both  suit  each  other  and  the  heroine.' —  Hunt.  But  to 
her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble.  Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy 
side.  '  The  beauty  of  such  a  phrase  is  no  mere  beauty  of  fancy  or 
of  sound ;  it  is  the  beauty  which  resides  in  truth  only,  every  word 
being  chosen  and  every  touch  laid  by  a  vital  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion. The  first  line  describes  in  perfection  the  duality  of  conscious- 
ness in  such  a  moment  of  suspense,  the  second  makes  us  realize  at 
once  the  physical  effect  of  the  emotion  on  the  heroine,  and  the  spell 
of  her  imagined  presence  on  ourselves.'  —  Colvin's  Keats,   Cap.  ix. 

208-216.  Keats'  manuscript  shows  that  this  gorgeous  picture  was 
completed  only  after  many  revisions  and  elaborate  toil.  Notice  es- 
pecially tlie  exquisite  comparison  in  line  213. 

217-225.  Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands.  Moonlight  shining 
through  stained  glass  is  not  strong  enough  to  produce  this  effect. 
But  as  we  read  this  description,  we  cannot  help  wishing  it  were! 
Porphyro  grew  faint.  '  The  lover's  growing  '  faint  '  is  one  of  the 
few  inequalities  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  latter  productions  of 
this  great  but  young  and  over-sensitive  poet.  He  had,  at  the  time  of 
his  writing  this,  the  seeds  of  a  mortal  illness  in  him,  and  he  doubt- 
less wrote  as  he  had  felt,  for  he  was  also  deeply  in  love  ;  and  extreme 
sensibility  struggled  in  him  with  a  great  understanding.'  —  Hunt. 

226-243.  clasp'd  like  a  missal,  etc.  Hunt  takes  this  to  mean 
'  .  .  .  where  Christian  prayer-books  must  not  be  seen  and  are  there- 
fore doubly  cherished  for  the  danger.'  But  '  cherished  '  by  whom? 
And  how  does  this  explain  'clasp'd'.''  Her  soul  is  certainly  the 
thing  'clasp'd;'  i.e.,  tight-closed,  unopened  as  would  be  a  Christian 
prayer-book  in  a  land  of  Paynims. 

244-261.  carpet.  An  anachronism  (repeated  in  line  360).  Medi- 
eval chambers  and  halls  were  strewn  with  rushes ;  '  carpets '  were 
then  coverings  for  tables  and  couches,  such  as  the  '  cloth '  described 
in  line  256. 

262-270.  Notice  the  Oriental  richness  of  the  coloring.  Tliis 
stanza  owes  something  to  Paradise  Lost,  v.  331-34S. 

271-297.  carpet  (285)  ;  here  used  correctly,  referring  to  the  '  cloth  ' 
of  line  256.  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy;  the  title  of   a  poem 

written  by  Alain  Chartier  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Keats'  poem  of 
the  same  name  has  almost  nothing  in  common  with  the  original. 

298-315.  tunable  =  harmonious,  musical.  See  note  on  Lycidas, 
37-49- 

316-324.     Notice  the  striking  effect  produced  by  the  sharp  contrast 


112  NOTES    TO    KEATS. 

between  the  warmth  and  passion  of  the  hero  and  the  unsympathetic 
chill  of  his  surroundings. 

325-351.  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed.  The  best  we  can  say 
for  tliis  conceit  is  that  it  is  in  Shakespeare's  earliest  and  worst  st_)le. 
Rhenish  =  Rhine  wine,  as  in 

The  king  doth  wake  to-night  and  takes  his  rouse, 
Keeps  wassail,  and  the  swaggering  upspring  reels; 
And  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down, — 

Hamlet,  i.  4,  8-10. 

352-378.  Not  the  least  artistic  portion  of  this  wonderful  poem  is 
its  conclusion — carefully  prepared  for  by  the  allusions  in  lines  22- 
23  and  155-156.  Such  exquisite  dramatic  propriety  is  rare  in  Keats  ; 
it  is  nevertheless  indispensable  in  every  work  of  art  that  would  claim 
for  itself  the  first  rank. 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  is  the  one  considerable  effort  of  Keats  in  which  he  has 
been  able  to  invent  a  human  interest  and  a  human  action  manifesting  themselves 
in  a  manner  at  once  rational  and  noble.  Yet  even  in  this  masterpiece,  we  feel 
that  the  poet  is  least  at  home  in  the  human  part  of  the  story;  that  his  strength 
lies  in  the  more  limited  field  of  Word- Painting ;  in  his  ability  to  individualize  a 
scene  and  represent  it  for  us  in  words  as  the  painter  does  in  colors. 

ODE   TO    A   NIGHTINGALE. 

During  the  autumn  and  winter  of  18 18  much  of  Keats'  time  was  occupied  with 
the  sad  duty  of  nursing  his  brother  Thomas,  —  ill  with  that  same  hereditary  con- 
sumption which  took  off  Keats  himself.  Thomas  Keats  died  in  December, 
1818;  this  Ode,  written  in  the  following  spring,  is  tinged  with  the  melancholy 
that  was  thenceforth  to  accompany  Keats  to  his  early  grave. 

i-io.  It  must  be  confessed  that  this  opening  stanza  is  not  clear. 
No  sufficient  reason  is  assigned  for  the  poet's  '  drowsy  numbness.' 
Lethe  ;  the  river  of  Forgetfulness  in  the  Underworld  ;  CI.  Myths,  pp. 
Si,  195,  351.  Dryad;  Wood-nymph.     Compare  Keats'  Ode  to 

Psvche,  given  in  CI.  Myths,  pp.  160-161. 

11-30.     Flora;  goddess  of  Flowers  and  Spring.  Hippocrene. 

See    note  on   Lycidas,  15-22.  What  thou    .     .     .     hast    never 

known,  The  weariness,  etc.  This  treatment  is  not  strictly  classical ; 
the  following  is  : 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands. 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 

That  wild,  unquenched,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain  ! 

Say,  will  it  never  heal? 


ODE    TO    A    NIGHTINGALE.  113 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames 
And  moonshine  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm? 

Matthew  Arnold's  Philomela :  5-15. 

31-50.  Not  charioted  by  Bacchus.  A  sudden  change  of  mood  from 
that  expressed  in  lines  ii-.;o;  he  will  have  none  of  the  inspiration 
of  Wine  ;  Poesj  shall  convey  him  to  some  Land  of  Faery.  In  line 
35  he  iinagines  himself  there.  Was  there  ever  a  more  lovely  picture 
of  this  Land  than  is  suggested  in  the  fifteen  lines  that  follow.''  See 
also  the  exquisite  picture  in  lines  69-70,  and  compare  the  remarks 
in  the  Notes  at  the  conclusion  of  The  Eve  of  St.  A^f/es. 

51-60.  I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death.  A  sigh  from 
the  depth  of  Keats'  own  soul.  Less  than  two  short  years  of  life 
were  before  him  when  he  wrote  this  line. 

61-80.  Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird.  The  enduring 
^yj>e  (the  Bird)  is  here  illogicall\'  contrasted  with  the  passing  lud/- 
vidual  (the  Poet).  No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down, 

'  is  Dantesque  in  its  weird  vigor,  .  .  .  bringing  before  us  vis- 
ions of  many  terrible  things,  and  chiefly  of  multitudinous  keen  and 
cruel  faces  more  relentless  in  the  relentless  oppressiveness  of  their 
onset  upon  the  sensitive  among  men  than  anything  [ .'']  in  the 
mighty  visions  of  datunation  and  detestableness  seen  five  hundred 
years  ago  in  Italy.'  —  Forman,  i.  xxi. 


ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S    HOMER. 

Keats  seems  never  to  have  acquired  any  knowledge  of  Greek  ;  the  crude  but 
vigorous  version  of  the  Elizabethan  furnished  the  sole  inspiration  for  this  mag- 
nificent Sonnet.  True,  it  was  Balboa  and  not  Cortez  that  discovered  the  Pacific, 
but  what  matter  ?  Hunt's  criticism  on  the  last  line  can  hardly  be  bettered  :  it 
leaves  the  reader,  he  says,  '  with  all  the  illimitable  world  of  thought  and  feeling 
before  him  to  which  his  imagination  will  have  been  brought,  while  journeying 
through  these  "  realms  of  gold."' 

Keats  was  only  twenty-one  when  he  wrote  this  Sonnet  (1816).  In  1848  was 
published  the  following  Sonnet  to  Homer,  found  among  his  papers :  whethei 
written  in  1816  or  in  1818  is  not  known. 

Standing'  aloof  in  giant  ignorance, 

Of  thee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 
As  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  perchance 

To  visit  dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 


114  NOTES    TO    KEATS. 


So  thou  wast  blind;  — but  then  the  veil  was  rent, 

For  Jove  uncurtain'd  Heaven  to  let  thee  live, 
And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spumy  tent, 

And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  his  forest-hive; 
Aye  on  the  shores  of  darkness  there  is  light. 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green, 
There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight. 

There  is  a  triple  sight  in  blindness  keen; 
Such  seeing  hadst  thou,  as  it  once  befel 

To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Hell. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  told  Forman  he  considered 

There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight 
one  of  the  finest  lines  '  in  all  poetry.' 


LIFE    OF   SHELLEY.  115 


SHELLEY. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  the  son  of  a  wealthy,  commonplace  Sussex  baronet, 
was  born  in  1792.  His  hatred  of  tyranny  made  Eton  anything  but  a  bed  of  roses 
for  him.  The  same  Oxford  that  still  maintains  in  a  place  of  honor*  a  statue  tc 
James  II.  —  this  Oxford  expelled  Shelley  for  the  utterance  of  religious  opinions 
which,  however  mistaken,  were  inspired  by  a  youthful  and  generous  enthusiasm 
for  truth.  This  same  noble  enthusiasm,  partly  redeems  the  follies  and  eccentrici- 
ties of  the  next  five  years;  '  Alastor  (1S16)  dawned  upon  the  world  another 
poet  in  this  age  of  poets.  Impartial  judgment  cannot  acquit  Shelley  of  all 
responsibility  for  his  first  wife's  suicide,  nor  can  it  fail  to  approve  the  legal 
decree  that  deprived  him  of  the  guardianship  of  her  children;  Shelley  had  to 
learn  by  this  bitter  experience  that  mere  iconoclasm  saveth  the  soul  neither 
of  society  nor  of  the  individual.  Laoti  and  Cynthia  (1S18)  shows  Shelley  in 
all  his  glory  and  all  his  weakness :  his  vehement  passion,  his  splendor  o{ 
imagery,  his  idealizing  spirituality,  his  monotony  in  character-delineation,  his 
inability  to  gain  any '  wide  and  luminous  view '  of  life.  —  The  same  year  (1818) 
he  left  England  for  the  third  time  —  never  to  return.  The  next  four  years  he 
spent  chiefly  in  Italy ;  the  impressions  of  that  residence,  recorded  in  the  prose 
of  his  Letters,  Matthew  Arnold  prefers  to  his  poetry.  His  intimacy  with  Byron 
gave  us  Julian  and  Maddalo  ;  ^  a  profound  and  admiring  study  of  the  Greek 
tragedians  gave  us  the  Prometheus  Unbound  (1821),  'a  genuine  hking  [for 
which] ,' Mr.  Symonds  declares, '  may  be  reckoned  the  touch-stone  of  a  man's 
capacity  for  understanding  lyric  poetry.'*  Of  all  his  \MOvks,  Ado?iais  (1821)  is 
the  most  artistic  ir  form.  Years  were  bringing  to  Shelley  the  philosophic  mind  ; 
had  he  hved  he  v/ould  undoubtedly  have  produced  something  great.  But  this 
was  not  to  be :  he  was  drowned  while  sailing  on  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia,  July  8, 
1822. 

Keats,  Napoleon,  Shelley,  Byron  —  all  died  between  1820  and  1824.  Was 
there  ever,  within  so  short  a  time,  such  an  in-gathering  of  mighty  spirits  to  the 
abodes  of  dusty  death  I 

1  Over  the  entrance  to  the  main  quadrangle  of  University  College  —  Shelley's 
College! 

2  See  Bibliography  on  Byron. 

SO  Cruel  Test!  Must  all  lack  the  lyric  sense  who  cannot  'like'  a  'Lyrical 
Drama,'  a  production  whose  very  title  is  a  contradiction  in  terms?  —  The  Lyrics 
in  the  Prometheus  Unbound  are  undoubtedly  beautiful,  though  at  times  danger- 
ously near  to  '  words,  detached  from  meaning  '  (Symonds,  p.  124).  But  how  about 
the  '  Drama'  part  of  this  play,  —  a  '  Drama'  where  the  characters  are  abstractions, 
where  the  action  obeys  no  law  but  that  of  unreason,  and  where  the  fundamental 
philosophy  (if  anything)  is  mere  Rousseauism? 


116  NOTES    TO    SHELLEY. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  All  that  is  worth  knowing  about  Shelley  (and  a  good 
deal  that  is  not)  is  collected  in  Dowden's  Life  of  Shelley.  This  is  a  special  plea, 
the  general  plan  of  which  is  drawn  with  great  literary  skill,  while  many  of  the 
details  are  filled  in  with  fervid  and  unnecessary  rhetoric  a  la  Swinburne.  Shel- 
ley (E. M.  L.),by  the  lamented  John  Addington  Symonds,  gives  us  the  life  and 
the  poetry  with  less  attempt  to  gloss  over  the  faults  ;  Sharp's  Shelley  (Gt.  Wr.) 
gives  a  favorable  coloring  to  the  main  facts  of  Shelley's  life,  with  little  comment 
on  the  poetry.  Prefixed  to  IVoodberry's  Text  of  Shelley  (the  most  recent)  is  a 
brief  Memoir. 

Criticism.  —  DeQuincey :  Notes  on  Gilfillan's  Literary  Portraits;  Perq> 
Bysshe  Shelley.  Though  written  when  material  for  Shelley's  biography  was  com- 
paratively scanty,  this  essay  gauges  the  character  of '  the  eternal  child '  with  a 
fine  discrimination  that  Shelleyites  would  do  well  to  study.  Attempts  no  esti- 
mate of  Shelley's  poetry. 

Bagehot :  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  L;  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  A  subtle  study 
(i)  of  some  of  the  characters  of  Shelley's  poems  as  reflecting  the  impulses  of  the 
poet;  (2)  of  Shelley's  religious  (?)  philosophy;  (3)  of  the  Classical  quality  of  his 
Imagination  as  distinguished  from  the  Romantic  Fancy  of  Keats. 

Shairp  :  Aspects  of  Poetry  ;  Shelley  as  a  Lyric  Poet.  Follows  the  line  of  thought 
suggested  under  (i)  and  (2)  of  Bagehot's  Essay.  Concludes  with  an  examina- 
tion of  the  most  famous  lyrics  ;  even  these  the  author  does  not  rank  high,  find- 
ing them  limited  in  range  and  unsound  in  substance. 

Swinburne  :  Essays  and  Studies  ;  Notes  on  the  Text  of  Shelley.  As  to  the  Notes, 
I  confess  my  judgment  jumps  with  Mr.  Arnold's  when  he  writes  :  '  Shelley  is  not 
a  classic,  whose  various  readings  are  to  be  noted  with  earnest  attention."  —  For 
pure,  unconscious  humor  there  is  hardly  a  critic  to  equal  Mr.  Swinburne  since 
the  death  of  the  lamented  Hosea  Biglow.  He  tells  us  that '  Byron  was  a  singer 
who  could  not  sing; '  that  Shelley'  was  alone  the  perfect  singing-god,'  the  man 
of  '  flawless  work  and  perfect  service,  .  .  .  [who]  holds  the  same  rank  in 
lyric  as  Shakespeare  in  dramatic  poetry  —  supreme,  and  without  a  second  of  his 
race.'  ( !) 

Matthew  Arnold  :  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series  ;  Shelley.  A  review  of 
Dowden's  Shelley,  marking  '  firmly  what  is  ridiculous  and  odious  in  the  Shelley 
brought  to  our  knowledge,'  and  showing  that  the  '  former  beautiful  and  lovable 
Shelley  nevertheless  survives.'  Points  out  Shelley's  self-deception  and  want  of 
humor.  (How  persistently  and  naturally  these  defects  re-appear  in  Shelley's 
followers !) 

Courthope  :  The  Liberal  Aiovement  in  Etiglish  Literature ;  Essay  iv.  Attrib- 
utes Shelley's  failure  in  Epic  and  Drama  to  his '  imperfect  perception  of  the  limits 
of  art.' 

See  also  Bibliography  on  Byron  and  on  Keats. 


LINES   WRITTEN   AMONG   THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS. 

This  poem  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1818  when  the  Shelleys  were  living 
near  Venice.    Their  home  is  thus  described  by  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  Note  on  the 


AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN  HILLS.  117 


Poems  of  1818 :  '  I  Capuccini  was  a  villa  built  on  the  site  of  a  Capuchin  convent, 
demolished  when  the  French  suppressed  religious  houses  ;  it  was  situated  on  the 
very  over-hanging  brow  of  a  low  hill  at  the  foot  of  a  range  of  higher  ones.  The 
house  was  cheerful  and  pleasant ;  a  vine-trellised  walk,  a  Pergola,  as  it  is  called 
in  Italian,  led  from  the  hall  door  to  a  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
which  Shelley  made  his  study,  and  in  which  he  began  the  Prometheus  ;  and  here 
also,  as  he  mentions  in  a  letter,  he  wrote  Julian  and  Maddalo  ;  a  slight  ravine, 
with  a  road  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden  from  the  hill,  on  which  stood  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  castle  of  Este,  whose  dark  massive  wall  gave  forth  an  echo, 
and  from  whose  ruined  crevices,  owls  and  bats  flitted  forth  at  night,  as  the  cres- 
cent moon  sunk  behind  the  black  and  heavy  battlements.  We  looked  from  the 
garden  over  the  wide  plain  of  Lombardy,  bounded  to  the  west  by  the  far  Apen- 
nines, while  to  the  east,  the  horizon  was  lost  in  misty  distance.  After  the 
picturesque  but  limited  view  of  mountain,  ravine,  and  chestnut  wood  at  the 
Baths  of  Lucca,  there  was  something  infinitely  gratifying  to  the  eye  in  the  wide 
range  of  prospect  commanded  by  our  new  abode.' 

1-44.  Notice  the  hurrying  force  of  tiie  imagery ;  there  is  neither 
pause  nor  let  until  the  figure  is  worked  out  (line  26).  For  welter- 
ing (18)  compare  Lycidas,  13.  Are  (43)  :  ungrammatical. 

45-65.  If  there  is  any  specific  reference  intended  in  these  lines,  I 
confess  I  am  unable  to  trace  it.  Perhaps  they  merely  continue  the 
imagery  of  1-26.  The  syntax  of  64-65  is  hardly  '  flawless  work,' 
nor  shottld  great  poets  hold  themselves  to  be  above  the  rules  of 
grammar. 

66-114.  In  these  lines  the  general  features  of  the  landscape,  as 
described  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  are  easily  recognizable ;  but  how  beauti- 
fully idealized!  grain  (80).  See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  33. 
Amphitrite  (97)  ;  a  sea-nymph,  daughter  of  Nereus.    CI.  Myths,  §  52. 

115-141.  And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey.  Referring  to  the 
belief  that  the  tides  were  encroaching  on  the  foundations  of  Venice. 
Engineering  Science  has  made  it  improbable  that  ^^enice  will  ever 
suffer  seriously  from  this  danger.  thy  conquest-branded  brow. 

In  1818  Venice  was  under  Austrian  rule ;  see  note  on  '  the  Austrian,' 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  iv.  Stanza  12,  line  55. 

142-166.  Celtic  Anarch.  Celtic  is  here  vaguely  and  incorrectly 
used  for  '  Austrian.'  In  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  ii.  4,  94,  with 
like   inaccuracy,    Shelley   uses    'Celt'   for   'European.'  Thou 

and  all  thy  sister  band.  Like  the  cities  of  the  Lombard  League. 
See  notes  on  Childe  Harold,  Canto  iv.  Stanzas  xi.  and  xii. 

167-205.  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan :  Byron.  See  the  Julian  and 
Maddalo.  thunder-fit.     See  note  on  this  word  in  The  Ancient 

Mariner,  69.  Scamander :  a  river  of  the  Troad.     See  Iliad,  xxi. 

Petrarch,  died  at  Arguk  in  the  Euganean  Hills,  in  1374.  In  com- 
mon with  Shelley,  his  i.iind  seems  haunted  with  the  vision  of  Ideal 


118  NOTES    TO    SHELLEY. 

Loveliness;  on  this  subject  these  poets  can  sing  interminably  with 
a  sublimity  that  sometimes  verges  perilously  on  the  ridiculous. 

206-235.  the  brutal  Celt.  See  note  on  Celtic  Anarch,  line  152. 
ihe  sickle  to  the  sword  Lies  unchanged.  The  imagery  of  lines  225- 
230  seems  to  be  suggested  by  Joel  iii.  10-13.  Hebrew  poetry  was  a 
favorite  study  with  Shelley.  foison  =  abundance  ;  a  fine  old  word, 
seldom  used  now  except  in  poetry.  '  Fusion '  is  a  doublet  of  foison, 
and  both  are  from  the  Latin  '  fundere,'  to  pour. 

236-284.  Ezzelin.  '  Ezzelino,  a  small,  pale,  wiry  man,  with  ter- 
ror in  his  face  and  enthusiasm  for  evil  in  his  heart,  lived  a  foe  to 
luxury,  cold  to  the  pathos  of  children,  dead  to  the  enchantment  of 
women.  His  one  passion  was  the  greed  for  power,  heightened  by 
the  lust  for  blood.  Originally  a  noble  of  the  Veronese  Marches,  he 
founded  his  illegal  authority  upon  the  Captaincy  of  the  Imperial 
party  delegated  to  him  b\'  Frederick.  Verona,  Vicenza,  Padua,  Feltre 
and  Belluno  made  him  captain  in  the  Ghibelline  interest,  conferring 
on  him  judicial  as  well  as  military  supremacy.  How  he  fearfully 
abused  his  power,  how  a  crusade  was  preached  against  him,  and  how 
he  died  in  silence,  like  a  boar  at  bay,  rending  from  his  wounds  the 
dressings  that  his  foes  had  placed  to  keep  him  alive,  are  notorious 
matters  of  history  ...  by  his  absolute  contempt  of  law,  his 
inordinate  cruelty,  his  prolonged  massacres  and  his  infliction  of 
plagues  upon  whole  peoples,  Ezzelino  established  the  ideal  in  Italy 
of  a  tyrant  marching  to  his  end  by  any  means  whatever.'  —  Symonds  : 
Renaissance  in   Italy ;   i.  107-108.  Padua.     The  University  of 

Padua  was  a  famous  institution  of  learning  as  early  as  the  thirteenth 
century.  Galileo  \\"as  Professor  of  Mathematics  there  from  1592- 
1610. 

285-319.  an  air-dissolved  star,  that  mingles  fragrance  (with  light) 
is  certainly  a  false  image;  or  is  this  one  of  those  'impressionist' 
lines  that  we  are  to-day  so  loudly  called  upon  to  admire  .''  Lines 
315-319  seem  to  express  about  as  definite  a  religious  belief  as 
Shelley  ever  attained  to. 

320-334.  that  silent  isle,  must  be  the  hopeful  mood  that  came  to 
the  poet,  this  beautiful  autumn  morning  among  the  hills.  The 
remembered  agonies  of  Shelley's  life  were  neither  few  nor  far  be- 
tween, but  their  causes  lay  chiefly  in  his  own  ill-regulated  impulses. 

335-374.  This  is  certainly  a  lovely  picture  of  the  Ideal  Life  for 
humanity,  but  if  we  try  to  apply  this  Ideal  to  life  on  Earth  we  find 
at  once  it  is  applicable  only  to  life  in  Cloud-Land.  Matthew  Arnold 
has  summed  up  this  failing  of  Shelley's  in  one  telling  sentence  :  '  The 
Shcllev  of  actual  life  is  a  vision  of  beauty  and  radiance,  indeed,  but 
availing  nothing,  effecting  nothing.' 


THE    CLOUD.— TO    A    SKYLARK.  119 


THE    CLOUD. 

In  her  preface  to  the  1839  edition  of  her  husband's  poems,  Mrs.  Shelley  wrote : 
'  There  are  others,  such  as  the  Ode  to  the  Skylark  and  The  Cloud,  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  critics,  bear  a  purer  poetical  stamp  than  any  other  of  his  pro- 
ductions. They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted  :  listening  to  the  carolling 
of  the  bird,  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy,  or  marking  the  cloud  as  it  sped  across 
the  heavens  while  he  floatpd  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames.'  There  are  few,  per- 
haps, who  will  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Shelley  in  thinking  that  this  poem,  the  Ode 
to  a  Skylark  [and  the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind]  '  bear  a  purer  poetical  stamp  than 
any  other  of  his  productions."  Notice  the  exquisitely  light  effect  of  the  anapaestic 
movement  and  how  it  fits  the  subject. 

For  rack  (33)  in  the  sense  of  '  floating  vapor,'  compare  Shake- 
speare's use  of  this  word  in  The  Tempest,  iv.  i,  159. 

TO    A    SKYLARK. 

'  In  the  spring  we  spent  a  week  or  two  near  Leghorn,  borrowing  the  house  of 
some  friends  who  were  absent  on  a  journey  to  England. —  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer  evening,  while  wandering  among  the  lanes  whose  myrtle-hedges  were 
the  bowers  of  the  fire-flies,  that  we  heard  the  carolling  of  the  skylark  which  in- 
spired one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems.' — Mrs.  Shelley's  Note  on  the 
Poems  of  1820. 

1-5.  The  lark,  when  addressed,  is  supposed  to  be  already  high  in 
the  heavens. 

6-10.  The  punctuation  in  our  text  follows  that  of  the  first  edition  : 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire,  tlien,  refers  to  the  ascending  motion  of  the  bird 
and  not  to  its  appearance.  If,  as  some  editors  propose,  we  remove 
the  semi-colon  from  the  end  of  the  eighth  line  to  the  end  of  the 
seventh,  we  get  a  meaning  at  variance  with  that  of  the  third  line. 

11-60.  In  these  lines  we  see  illustrated  Courthope's  remark:  '  If 
greatness  in  poetry  consisted  in  a  succession  of  dazzling  images 
and  a  rapid  flow  of  splendid  verse,  Shelley  would  be  entitled  to 
almost  the  first  place  in  English  literature.'  When  we  read  the 
Prometheus  Unbound,  we  see  the  other  side  of  the  shield  and  under- 
stand what  the  critic  means  when  he  adds  :  '  But  in  all  the  higher 
qualities  of  epic  and  dramatic  construction,  his  work  is  defective.' 

61-90.  Sprite  (61 ),  an  archaism  for  '  spirit ; '  so  used  also  in  Lines 
Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,  371.  knew  (80)  :  ungrain- 

matical. 

91-105.  This  passage  Bagehot '  compares  with  the  fifth  and  sixth 
stanzas  of  Keats'  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  to  illustrate  the  difference 
between  the  Classical  Imagination  and  the  Romantic  Fancy.     '  When 

1  See  Shelley  Bibliography,  p.  ii6. 


120  NOTES    TO    SHELLEY. 

we  speak  of  this  distinction,  we  seem  almost  to  be  speaking  of  the 
distinction  between  ancient  and  modern  literature.  The  character- 
istic of  the  classical  literature  is  the  simplicity  with  which  the  im- 
agination appears  in  it ;  that  of  modern  literature  is  the  profusion 
with  w  hich  the  most  various  adornments  of  the  accessory  fancy  are 
thrown  and  lavished  upon  it.  .  .  .  With  a  single  soaring  effort  im- 
agination may  reach  her  end ;  if  she  fail,  n9  fancy  can  help  her ; 
if  she  succeed,  there  will  be  no  petty  accumulations  of  insensible 
circumstances  in  a  region  far  above  all  things.  Shelley's  excellence 
in  the  abstract  lyric  is  almost  another  phrase  for  the  simplicity  of 
his  impulsive  imagination.'  For  a  further  illustration,  compare  the 
concluding  stanza  of  Shelley's  poem  with  the  concluding  stanza  of 
Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan. 

SONNET. —TO   THE   NILE. 

In  February,  1818,  Keats,  Hunt  and  Shelley  agreed  each  to  write  a  Sonnet  on 
the  Nile,  It  was  long  supposed  that  the  Ozymandias  Sonnet  was  Shelley's  con- 
tribution on  this  occasion,  but  in  1876  it  was  pretty  well  established  that  this 
Sonnet  —  To  the  Nile — is  the  one  in  question  (Forman,  i.  410). 

Keats'  Sonnet  is  as  follows : 

Son  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African! 

Stream  of  the  Pj-ramid  and  crocodile ! 

We  call  thee  fruitful,  and  that  very  while 

A  desert  fills  our  seeing's  inward  span : 

Nurse  of  swart  nations  since  the  world  began. 

Art  thou  so  fruitful?    or  dost  thou  beguile 

Those  men  to  honour  thee,  who,  \vorn  with  toil. 

Rest  them  a  space  'twixt  Cairo  and  Decan? 

O  may  dark  fancies  err!     They  surely  do; 

'Tis  ignorance  that  makes  a  barren  waste 

Of  all  beyond  itself.    Thou  dost  bedew 

Green  rushes  like  our  rivers,  and  dost  taste 

The  pleasant  sun-rise.     Green  Isles  hast  thou  too. 

And  to  the  sea  as  happily  dost  haste. 

The  tliought  in  Shelley's  concluding  couplet  is  repeated  from   his  Laon  and 

Cynthia,  vi.  41 : 

love  had  nursed  us  in  the  haunts 
Where  knowledge,  from  its  secret  source,  enchants 
Yoimg  hearts  with  the  fresh  music  of  its  springing, 
Ere  j'ct  its  gathered  flood  feeds  human  wants 
As  the  great  Nile  feeds  Egypt;  ever  Hinging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its  waves  are  swinging. 

SONNET  —  OZYMANDIAS. 

'  After  all,  it  is  something  to  have  seen  those  red  waters.  It  is  only  low  green 
banks,  mud-huts  and  palm-clumps,  with  the  sun  setting  red  behind  them,  and 


SONNET—  OZYMANDIAS.  121 

the  great,  dull  sinuous  river  flashing  here  and  there  in  the  light.  But  it  is  the 
Nile,  the  old  Saturn  of  a  stream  —  a  divinity  yet,  though  younger  river  gods 
have  deposed  him.  Hail !  O  venerable  father  of  crocodiles  1  ...  At  dawn 
in  the  morning  we  were  on  deck ;  the  character  had  not  altered  of  the  scenery 
about  the  river.  Vast  flat  stretches  of  land  were  on  either  side,  recovering  from 
the  subsiding  inundations  ;  near  the  mud  villages,  a  country  ship  or  two  was 
roosting  under  the  date  trees  ;  the  landscape  everywhere  stretching  away  level 
and  lonely.  In  the  sky  the  east  was  a  long  streak  of  greenish  light,  which 
widened  and  rose  until  it  grew  to  be  of  an  opal  color,  then  orange  ;  then,  behold, 
the  round  red  disc  of  the  sun  rose  flaming  up  above  the  horizon.  All  the  waters 
blushed  as  he  got  up ;  the  deck  was  all  red ;  the  steersman  gave  his  helm  to 
another,  and  prostrated  himself  on  the  deck,  and  bowed  his  head  eastward  and 
praised  the  maker  of  the  sun  ;  it  shone  on  his  white  turban  as  he  was  kneeling 
and  giit[?]  up  his  bronze  face  and  sent  his  blue  shadow  over  the  glowing  deck. 
The  distances,  which  had  been  gray,  were  now  purple ;  and  the  broad  stream 
was  illuminated.  As  the  sun  rose  higher,  the  morning  blush  faded  away  ;  the 
sky  was  cloudless  and  pale  and  the  river  and  the  surrounding  landscape  were 
dazzlingly  clear.  ...  It  is  poor  work,  this  landscape  painting  in  print. 
Shelley's  two  Sonnets  are  the  best  views  that  I  know  of  the  Pyramids  —  better 
than  the  reality ;  for  a  man  may  lay  down  the  book,  and  in  quiet  fancy  conjure 
up  a  picture  out  of  these  magnificent  words,  which  sha'n't  be  disturbed  by  any 
pettinesses  or  mean  realities.'  —  Thackeray ;  Cornhill  to  Cairo,  xv. 

Lines  6-8  are  not  clear.  The  meaning  seems  to  be  :  The  passions  of  Ozyman- 
dias  (stamped  on  the  broken  statue)  survive  the  hand  of  the  sculptor  that 
mocked  (imitated)  them  and  the  heart  of  the  vain-glorious  king  that  nourished 
them. 


122  LIFE    OF    WORDSWORTH. 


WORDSWORTH. 


William  Wordsworth  was  born  in  Cumberland  in  1770,  —fifteen  months 
before  the  death  of  Gray.  His  family  was  of  that  upper  middle  class,  the  back- 
bone of  English  society,  which  has  furnished  the  mother-country  her  greatest 
poets,  statesmen,  sailors  and  men  of  science  (Shakespeare  and  Milton,  Pitt  and 
Gladstone,  Nelson  and  Rodney,  Newton  and  Darwin) .  The  beauty  of  the  lonely 
Cumberland  hills  sank  deep  into  his  boyish  heart ;  deep  sank  also  the  spirit  oi 
reverence  which  men  of  mediceval  Cambridge  lovingly  expressed  iu 

That  branching  roof  i 
Self-poised  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells, 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 
Lingering  and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die. 

After  taking  his  degree  in  1791,  he  travelled  in  France,  —  sympathizing  at  first 
\vith  the  French  Revolutionists,  but  soon  recoiling  in  horror  at  their  excesses. 
A  small  legacy  enabled  him  to  devote  himself  to  literature  ;  the  result  was  the 
Lyrical  Ballads^  published  with  Coleridge  in  1798.  From  this  time  on,  for 
nearly  fifty  years,  Wordsworth  made  his  home  among  the  Lakes  of  Cumberland 
and  Westmoreland ;  here  it  was  he  grew  into  closer  and  closer  communion  with 
Nature,  interpreting  her  every  mood  and 

hearing  oftentimes 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue. 

Such  a  life  brings  with  it  the  bliss  of  solitude,  but  he  who  lives  it  cannot  touch 
the  depths  and  heights  of  passion  explored  by  those  who  live  in  the  great  world 
and  are  themselves  a  part  of  the  great  deeds  they  sing.  Nor  did  Wordsworth 
mistake  his  calling;  he  states  clearly  that  his  office  is  '.  .  .  to  add  sunshine 
to  daylight  by  making  the  happy  happier,  to  teach  the  young  and  the  gracious 
of  every  age  to  see,  to  think  and  feel,  and  therefore  to  become  more  actively  and 
securely  virtuous.' 

In  1813  Wordsworth  settled  at  the  home  indissolubly  associated  with  his 
name  —  Rydal  Mount.  He  was  now  forty-three  years  of  age  and  nearly  all  his 
best  work  was  done.  After  this  there  came  to  him,  slowly  but  surely,  the  rever- 
ence and  affection  of  all  that  was  best  in  England  —  but  the  fountains  of  poetic 


'  King's  College  Chapel.     Words^worth  was  a  student  at  St.  John's. 
2  See  Introduction  to  The  Ancient  Mariner. 


LIFE  AMD  BIBLIOGRAPHY.  123 

inspiration  had  well-nigh  run  dry.     In  1843  he  reluctantly  accepted  the  Laureate- 
ship.    He  died  on  the  23d  of  April,  1850, — 

With  heart  as  cahn  as  lakes  that  sleep 

In  frosty  moonlight  glistening, 
Or  mountain  torrents,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep 

To  their  own  far-oif  murmurs  listening. 

Friends.  —  Coleridge,  DeQuincey,  Scott,  Southey,  Lamb,  Dr.  Thomas 
Arnold. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Those  who  have  the  courage  to  read  all  the  verse  that 
Wordsworth  wrote  will  find  it  in  the  splendid  ii-vol.  edition  of  Professor  Will- 
iam Knight  (Paterson).  Vols,  ix.-xi.  contain  the  Life.  Opinions  will  always 
differ  widely  as  to  whether  it  is  possible  to  make  an  interesting  biography  out  of 
Wordsworth's  uneventful  and  self-centred  existence,  but  there  can  hardly  be 
two  opinions  as  to  the  dulness  of  Myers  Wordsivorth  (E.  M.  L.).  The  nature 
of  Calvert's  Wordsworth,  A  Biographic  ^Esthetic  Study,  is  sufficiently  indicated 
by  noting  that  the  author  considers  The  Idiot  Boy  an  '  incomparable  artistic 
feat.' 

Coleridge  :  Biographia  Literaria  ;  Cap.  iv.  xiv.  xvii.-xx.  xxii.  A  much  better 
exposition  of  Wordsworth's  poetic  philosophy  than  the  poet  was  able  to  give 
himself;  does  not  fail  to  point  out  what  Wordsworth  could  never  see,  —  the 
characteristic  defects  in  his  verse. 

DeQuincey :  Autobiography,  from  i8oj  to  1808;  Cap.  iil.-v.  (The  Lake 
Poets.)  These  are  chiefly  personal  reminiscences ; — ^the  unsympathetic  might 
call  them  small-beer  chronicles.  They  leave  us  with  the  impression  that  Words- 
worth's personality  was  decidedly  unlovely.  Essay  on  Wordsworth' s  Poetry. 
Examines  (briefly)  Wordsworth's  '  theory  of  Poetic  Diction  and  the  philosophy 
of  The  Excursion ; '  calls  attention  to  the  penetration  of  Wordsworth's  vision, 
and  the  depth  of  his  sympathy  with  The  Permanent  in  human  nature. 

Lowell:  Among  My  Books,  Second  Series ;  Wordsworth.  About  half  this 
Essay  is  biographical ;  the  other  half  does  not  spare  '  the  historian  of  Words- 
worthshire,'  yet  declares  that  his  '  better  utterances  have  the  bare  sincerity,  the 
absolute  abstraction  from  time  and  place,  the  immunity  from  decay  that  belong 
to  the  grand  simplicity  of  the  Bible." 

Stephen  :  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  Hi.  This  is  an  elaoorate  and  eulogistic 
exposition  of  that  Wordsworthian  philosophy  which  (Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  takes 
pains  to  assure  us),  'so  far  at  least  as  it  may  put  on  the  form  and  habit  of  'a 
scientific  system  of  thought, 'and  the  more  it  puts  them  on,'  —  is  an  illusion. 

Matthew  Arnold  :  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series  ;  Wordsworth.  In  this 
Essay  the  most  distinguished  disciple  of  Wordsworth  gives  up  about  four-fifths 
of  his  master's  verse  as  of  little  permanent  value,  but  presents  us  with  the  other 
one-fifth  as  a  '  great  and  ample  body  of  powerful  work '  that  will  rank  him 
superior  to  all  modern  poets  save  Dante,  Shakespeare,  MoliSre,  Milton  and 
Soethe,      French   and  German   critics  find  it  hard  to   treat  this  dictum   with 


124  NOTES    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

seriousness,  but  it  appeals  strongly  to  the  insularism  and  conservatism  of 
the  English  mind. 

Courthope :  The  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature,  Essay  in. 
(  Wordsworth^ s  Theory  of  Poetry).  Shows  that  Wordsworth's  best  poems  are 
written  on  principles  that  are  directly  opposed  to  the  theories  laid  down  in  his 
Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads. 

Those  who  desire  more  Wordsworthian  Criticism  should  consult  y.  S. 
Mill's  Autobiography,  Cap.  v. ;  Shairp's  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy  ;  John 
Morley's  Studies  in  Literature  ;  Whipple's  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  i. 

TO   A   HIGHLAND    GIRL. 

The  person  and  the  place  herein  idealized  are  thus  described  by  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  in  her  Tour  of  a  Journey  in  Scotland  :  August  28,  1803.  '  The  land- 
mg  was  as  pretty  a  sight  as  ever  I  saw.  The  bay,  which  had  been  so  quiet  two 
days  before,  was  all  in  motion  with  small  waves,  while  the  swollen  waterfall 
roared  in  our  ears.  The  boat  came  steadily  up,  being  pressed  almost  to  the 
water's  edge  by  the  weight  of  its  cargo ;  perhaps  twenty  people  landed,  one  after 
another.  .  .  .  The  women  .  .  .  were  dressed  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow, and  with  their  scarlet  cardinals,  the  tartan  plaids  of  the  men  and  Scotch 
bonnets  made  a  gay  appearance.  There  was  a  joyous  bustle  surrounding  the 
boat,  which  even  imparted  something  of  the  same  character  to  the  waterfall  in 
its  tumult,  and  the  restless  grey  waves ;  the  young  men  laughed  and  shouted, 
the  lassies  laughed  and  the  elder  folk  seemed  to  be  in  a  bustle  to  be  away.  .  .  . 
The  hospitality  we  had  met  with  at  the  two  cottages  and  Mr.  MacFarlane'sgave 
us  very  favorable  impressions  on  this  our  first  entrance  into  the  Highlands,  and 
at  this  day  the  innocent  merriment  of  the  girls,  with  their  kindness  to  us,  and  the 
beautiful  face  and  figure  of  the  elder,  come  to  my  mind  whenever  I  think  of  the 
ferry-house  and  waterfall  of  Loch  Lomond,  and  I  never  think  of  the  two  girls 
but  the  whole  image  of  that  romantic  spot  is  before  me,  a  living  image  as  it  will 
be  to  my  dying  day.'  Clough's  delightful  poem.  The  Bothie  of  Tober-Na- 

Vuolich,  is  an  epic  treatment  of  a  subject  similar  to  this. 

TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Wordsworth  classed  this  beautiful  lyric  among  his  Poems  of  the  Fancy,— 
why,  it  is  difficult  to  see.  Its  quality  U  more  akin  to  that  of  Shelley's  Ode  to  a 
Skylark  than  to  that  of  Keats'  Ode  to  a  Nightingale.  See  notes  on  the  former 
poem. 

TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

See  remarks,  in  the  Biography,  on  Wordsworth's  boyhood.     Of  the  lines, 

Shall  I  cill  thee  Bird 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice.' 

Wordsworth  has  given  the  following  exposition :  '  This  concise  interrogation 
characterizes  the  seeming  ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo,  and  dispossesses 
the  creature  of  a  corporeal  existence ;  the  imagination  being  tempted  to  this 


TIN  TERN   ABBEY.  125 


exertion  of  her  power  by  a  consciousness  in  the  memory  that  the  cuckoo  is 
almost  perpetually  heard  throughout  the  season  of  spring,  but  seldom  becomes 
an  object  of  sight.'  —  Wordsworth's  Prose  Works,  edited  by  Grosart,  ii.  137. 

TINTERN   ABBEY. 

This  is  the  last  poem  in  the  first  edition  of  The  I^yrical  Ballads  (1798). 
Wordsworth  classed  it  among  his  Poems  of  the  Imagination.  Matthew  Arnold 
declares  that  the  author's'  categories  are  ingenious  but  far-fetched,  and  the  result 
of  his  employment  of  them  is  unsatisfactory.'  The  critic  accordingly  places 
this  composition  among  the  Reflective  and  Elegiac  Poems. 

Coleridge  tells  us  that  Wordsworth's  object,  in  the  Poems  of  1798,  was 'to 
give  the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day  and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous 
to  the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  attention  from  the  lethargy  of  cus- 
tom, and  directing  it  to  the  loveliness  and  the  wonder  of  the  world  before  us ; 
an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  which,  in  consequence  of  the  film  of  familiarity 
and  selfish  solicitude,  we  have  eyes  yet  see  not,  ears  that  hear  not  and  hearts 
that  neither  feel  nor  understand.' 

Had  Wordsworth  never  pushed  his  poetical  theories  beyond  this  safe  and  de- 
sirable point,  he  would  have  spared  the  world  many  thousands  of  verses,  his 
critics  much  grief  and  his  friends  many  apologies. 

But  Tintern  Abbey  needs  no  apology  :  me  judice,  it  attains  almost  perfectly  the 
object  which  Coleridge  has  described ;  it  answers  perfectly  to  the  author's  defi- 
nition of  good  poetry  as  '  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feeling.' 

35-49.  It  must  have  been  of  some  such  lines  as  these  that  John 
Stuart  Mill  was  thinking  when  he  wrote  (Autobiography,  Cap.  v.)  : 
'  From  them  [Wordsworth's  poems]  I  seemed  to  learn  what  would 
be  the  perennial  source  of  happiness,  when  all  the  greater  evils  of 
life  should  have  been  removed.  And  I  felt  myself  at  once  better 
and  happier  as  I  came  under  their  influence.  There  have  certainly 
been,  even  in  our  own  age,  greater  poets  than  Wordsworth;  but 
poetry  of  deeper  and  loftier  feeling  could  not  have  done  for  me  at 
that  time  what  his  did.  I  needed  to  be  made  to  feel  that  there  was 
real,  permanent  happiness  in  tranquil  contemplation.  Wordsworth 
taught  me  this,  not  only  without  turning  away  from,  but  with  a 
greatly  increased  interest  in  the  common  feelings  and  common  des- 
tiny of  human  beings.  ...  At  the  conclusion  of  the  Poems 
came  the  famous  Ode,  falsely  called  Platonic,  '  Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality' :  in  which,  along  with  more  than  his  usual  sweetness  of 
melody  and  rhythm,  and  along  with  the  two  passages  of  grand 
imagery  but  bad  philosophy  so  often  quoted,  I  found  that  he  too  had 
had  similar  experience  to  mine.  ...  I  long  continued  to  value 
Wordsworth  less  according  to  his  intrinsic  merits,  than  by  the 
measure  of  what  he  had  done  for  me.  Compared  with  the  greatest 
poets,  he  may  be  said  to  be  the  poet  of  unpoetical  natures,  possessed 


126  NOTES    TO     WORDSWORTH. 

of  quiet  and  contemplative  tastes.  But  unpoetical  natures  are  pre- 
cisely those  which  require  poetic  cultivation.  This  cultivation 
Wordsworth  is  much  more  fitted  to  give,  than  poets  who  are  intrin- 
sically far  more  poets  than  he.' 

65-83.  '  The  forces  that  made  Wordsworth  a  poet  were  far  differ- 
ent from  those  conscious  reasonings  on  Man  and  Society,  of  which 
he  gives  an  account  in  the  Prelude:  his  'inspiration  sprang  from 
mysterious  sources  which,  as  he  shows  us  in  the  first  book  of  his 
curious  metrical  autobiography,  had  been  ujicomciously  pouring 
images  into  his  mind  from  earliest  childhood.'  — Courthope  :  The 
Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature ;  Essay  iii. 

93-102.  In  his  old  age  Wordsworth  became  a  High  Churchman 
and  a  Tory.  With  what  curious  feelings  must  he  have  read  this 
confession  of  the  Pantheistic  faith  of  his  youth  !  Bvron  might  have 
written  these  lines;  his  own  belief  in  Pantheism  is  not  more  un- 
mistakably nor  more  beautifully  expressed  : 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 

Earth,  air,  stars  —  all  that  springs  from  the  great  Whole 

Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul. 

Don  Juan,  iii.  54. 

121-133.  Such  sentiment  as  this,  unintelligible  to  many,  was  un- 
doubtedly  religious  truth  to  Wordsworth.  Professor  C.  C.  Everett 
suggests  as  explanation  of  the  joy  we  receive  in  the  contemplation 
of  Nature  :  i)  our  inore.or  less  conscious  recognition  of  the  freedom 
of  the  life  of  Nature  ;  2)  the  identity  of  our  lives  with  that  of  Nature  ; 
3)  the  fulness  of  the  life  of  Nature;  4)  its  divinity ;  5)  its  prefigura- 
tion  of  a  perfection  which  we  have  not  vet  attained.' 


LAODAMIA. 

Protesilaus  was  a  Thessalian  chief  in  the  army  of  Agamemnon.  While  the 
Grecian  fleet  lay  wind-bound  at  Aulis,  the  oracle  declared  that  victory  in  the 
coming  contest  should  rest  with  that  side  which  should  lose  the  first  warrior. 
Protesilaus  resolved  to  sacrifice  himself  for  his  country.  When  the  fleet  reached 
Troy,  he  was  the  first  to  leap  ashore  and  the  first  to  meet  death  from  the  sword 
of  Hector. 

When  Laodamia,  the  wife  of  Protesilaus,  heard  of  his  death,  she  besought  the 
gods  to  grant  her  once  more  sight  of  her  husband.  —  At  this  pomt  in  the  story 
Wordsworth's  poem  begins. 

1  For  the  ingenious  and  beautiiul  argument  by  which  this  explanation  is  sup- 
ported, see  Everett's  Poetry,  Comedy  and  Duty,  Cap.  I.  For  a  very  different 
view  of  Nature,  see  J.  S.  Mill's  Essay  entitled  Nature. 


INTIMATIONS    OF  IMMORTALITY.  127 

65-66.     Parcae.     See  note  on   '  Fury,'  Ljcidas,   75.  Stygian. 

See  note  on  this  word  in  L'Allegro,  3. 

79-84.  Alcestis.  See  Notes  on  Childe  Harold,  Canto  iv.  Stanza 
xvi.  Medea;  Aeson  :  CI.  Myths,  §  145-146. 

115-120.  Aulis.  For  the  story  of  Iphigenia  in  Aulis,  see  CI. 
Myths,  p.  288;  Tennyson's  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  101-120. 

158-163.  Wordsworth  changed  this  stanza  twice,  each  time  for 
the  worse.  The  version  on  p.  202  is  his  latest  and  is  therefore 
given  there  ;  the  second  reading  is  : 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  Gods  be  moved; 
She  who  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 
Of  lovers  that  .in  reason's  spite  have  loved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts  —  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  mid  unfading  bowers. 

The  original  reading  is  : 

Ah,  judge  her  gently  who  so  deeply  loved ! 
Her,  who  in  reason's  spite,  yet  without  crime, 
Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  removed; 
Delivered  from  the  galling  yoke  of  time 
And  those  frail  elements — to  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  mid  unfading  bowers. 

During  the  years  1814-1816  Wordsworth  made  a  deep  study  of  Vergil ;  the 
effects  of  this  ennobling  discipline  are  perceptible  in  the  lofty  tone  and  (at  times) 
majestic  diction  of  Laodamia.  —  With  whatever  fatuity  Wordsworth  may  have 
clung  to  his  theory  '  that  there  neither  is  nor  can  be  any  essential  difference 
between  the  language  of  prose  and  [of]  metrical  composition,'  his  practice,  and 
that  of  all  great  poets,  show  there  is  a  decided  difference.  No  man  can  employ 
the  language  of  the  peasantry  (to  this  reductio  ad  absurdum  was  Wordsworth 
driven  in  defending  his  theory)  and  write  a  poem  like  Laodamia ;  —  a  poem 
that  ranks  not  unworthily  with  the  creations  of  that 

Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure  ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 

ODE    ON   THE    INTIMATIONS    OF  IMMORTALITY. 

'  Even  the  "  intimations  "  of  the  famous  Ode,  those  corner-stones  of  the  supposed 
philosophic  system  of  Wordsworth,  —  the  idea  of  the  high  instincts  and  affec- 
tions coming  out  in  childhood,  testifying  of  a  divine  home  recently  left,  and 
fading  away  as  our  life  proceeds,  —  this  idea,  of  undeniable  beauty  as  a  play  of 
fancy,  has  itself  not  the  character  of  poetic  truth  of  the  best  kind  ;  it  has  no  real 
solidity.  The  instinct  of  delight  in  Nature  and  her  beauty  had  no  doubt  extraor- 
dinary strength  in  Wordsworth  himself  as  a  child.  But  to  say  that  universally 
this  instinct  is  mighty  in  childhood,  and  tends  to  die  away  afterwards,  is  to  say 


128  NOTES    TO     WORDSWORTH. 


what  is  extremely  doubtful.  In  many  people,  perhaps  with  the  majority  of  edu- 
cated persons,  the  love  of  nature  is  nearly  imperceptible  at  ten  years  old,  but 
strong  and  operative  at  thirty.  In  general  we  may  say  of  these  high  instincts  of 
early  childhood,  the  base  of  the  alleged  systematic  philosophy  of  Wordsworth, 
what  Thucydides  says  of  the  early  achievements  of  the  Greek  race:  "  It  is  im- 
possible to  speak  with  certainty  of  what  is  so  remote ;  but  from  all  that  we  can 
really  investigate,  I  should  say  that  they  were  no  very  great  things." ' —  Matthew 
Arnold  :  Essay  on  Wordsworth. 

See  also  remarks  by  J.'S.  Mill,  quoted  in  Notes  on  Tintern  Abbey,  35-49. 

ODE   TO   DUTY. 

Had  the  man  who  wrote  this  Ode  lived  in  the  days  of  Ahab  the  son  of  Omri 
he  would  have  rested  under  the  juniper-tree  with  Elijah  the  Tishbite  and  would 
have  ascended  with  him  unto  Horeb  the  mount  of  God. 

Had  he  lived  in  days  of  Milton,  stoutly  would  he  have  fought  against  the  jirc  - 
fane  Cavalier,  the  word  of  the  Lord  in  his  mouth  and  a  two-edged  sword  in  his 
hand. 

When  the  bugle-call  of  Duty  sounds,  such  men  are  Ready  !  Aye  Ready!  If 
they  fall,  they  fall  with  face  to  foe ;  their  names  shine  forth  imperishable,  em- 
blazoned forever  in  the  Book  of  The  Hero  and  The  Martyr! 

SONNET.— TO    MILTON. 

This  Sonnet  was  written  in  1S02.  No  one  acquainted  with  the  social  con- 
dition of  England  then,  can  deny  the  truthfulness  of  Wordsworth's  picture.  —  In 
both  the  matter  and  the  manner  of  this  Sonnet  we  see  Wordsworth  at  his  best ; 
we  have  here  a  fine  illustration  of  one  part  of  Arnold's  oft-quoted  criticism  : 
'  Wordsworth's  poetry  is  great  because  of  the  extraordinary  power  with  which 
Wordsworth  feels  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature,  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  the  sim- 
ple primary  affections  and  duties  ;  and  because  of  the  extraordinary  power  with 
which,  in  case  after  case,  he  shows  us  this  joy,  and  renders  it  so  as  to  make  us 
share  it,' 


LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGRAPHY.  129 


MACAULAY. 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  was  born  in  1800.  His  father,  Zachary 
Macaulay,  was  the  friend  and  co-adjutor  of  Wilberforce.  At  fifteen  Macaulay 
had  read  widely  enough  to  deliver  a  critical  judgment  on  the  comparative  merits 
of  Chaucer  and  Boccaccio  ;  at  Cambridge  (1818-1822)  he  detested  mathematics, 
but  took  prizes  in  the  classics  and  in  English.  His  Edinburgh  Review  articles 
on  Milton  (1825)  and  on  Mill  (1829)  made  him  famous;  the  Whigs  were  glad 
to  secure  so  promising  a  recruit  and  in  1830  he  entered  Parliament  under  their 
patronage.  The  debates  on  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832  showed  him  to  be  a  match 
for  the  most  experienced  orators  of  the  day  ;  after  four  years  of  intense  political 
and  literary  activity,  he  accepted  tlie  lucrative  position  of  Member  of  the  Su- 
preme Council  of  India,  with  the  honorable  motive  of  assisting  his  younger 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  of  making  possible  for  himself  a  purely  literary  life. 
Returning  to  England  in  1838,  he  was  induced  to  assume,  for  three  years  more, 
the  '  wasteful  drudgery  of  ofifice  ; '  this  delayed  the  publication  of  the  Lays  until 
1842,  and  of  the  first  two  volumes  oiXVci  History  of  England  M-a.'aX  1848.  In  1852 
his  health  began  to  fail,  but  he  worked  on  manfully,  publishing  occasional 
Essays  and  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  of  his  History.  He  was  raised  to  the 
peerage  in  1857,  but  lived  to  enjoy  his  well-earned  honors  a  short  time  only. 
He  passed  quietly  to  rest  on  the  28th  of  December,  1859. 

Truthfully  may  we  apply  to  him  almost  the  very  words  he  wrote  of  Johnson : 
The  more  we  know  of  his  private  life,  the  more  is  our  conviction  strengthened 
that  he  was  not  only  a  great  but  a  good  man. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  The  sincerity  and  sweetness  of  Macaulay's  character 
portray  themselves  in  his  Life  and  Letters  edited  by  his  nephew  G.  Otto 
Trevelyan.  No  one  can  afford  to  be  ignorant  of  this  delightful  book.  Mori- 
son's  Macaulay  (E.  M.  L.)  is  more  critical  than  biographical.  Thackeray's 
Nil  Nisi  Bonum  (in  his  Roundabout  Papers)  contains  an  affecting  tribute  to 
Macaulay  by  one  who  knew  and  loved  him  well.  For  the  History,  see  Ma- 
caulay's Speeches ;  Spencer  Walpole's  History  of  England,  Cap.  vii.  -  xiv. 
(1820-1837)  ;  AlcCarthy's  History  of  Our  Own  Times,  Cap.i.-xl.  (1837-1859). 

Criticism  (on  the  Poetry).— -y.  5.  Mill  m.  the  Westminster  Review ;  Vol. 
xxxix.  (Old  Series)  ;  Leslie  Stephen  in  Hours  in  a  Library,  Third  Series ;  7. 
Cotter  Morison  in  his  Life  of  Macaulay,  Cap.  iv.  Those  who  desire  to  study 
Macaulay's  Poems  with  a  copious  and  scholarly  commentary,  can  find  it  in  the 
excellent  edition  of  the  Lays  by  Professor  J.  C.  Rolfe  (Harpers). 


130  NOTES    TO    MACAU  LAY. 


HORATIUS. 

In  his  General  Preface  to  The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  Macaulay  writes: 

'  In  the  following  poems  the  author  speaks,  not  in  his  own  person,  but  in  the 
persons  of  ancient  minstrels  who  know  only  what  a  Roman  citizen,  born  three 
or  four  hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era,  maybe  supposed  to  have  known, 
and  who  are  in  nowise  above  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  their  age  and  nation. 
To  these  imaginary  poets  must  be  ascribed  some  blunders  which  are  so  obvious 
that  it  is  unnecessary  to  point  them  out.  The  real  blunder  would  have  been  to 
represent  these  old  poets  as  deeply  versed  in  general  history,  and  studious  of 
chronological  accuracy.  To  them  must  also  be  attributed  the  illiberal  sneers  at 
the  Greeks,  the  furious  party-spirit,  the  contempt  for  the  arts  of  peace,  the  love 
of  war  for  its  own  sake,  the  ungenerous  exultation  over  the  vanquished,  which 
the  reader  will  sometimes  observe.  To  portray  a  Roman  of  the  age  of  Camillus 
or  Curius  as  superior  to  national  antipathies,  as  mourning  over  the  devastation 
and  slaughter  by  which  empire  and  triumphs  were  to  be  won,  as  looking  on 
human  suffering  with  the  sympathy  of  Howard,  or  as  treating  conquered  enemies 
with  the  delicacy  of  the  Black  Prince,  would  be  to  violate  all  dramatic  propriety. 
The  old  Romans  had  some  great  virtues,  fortitude,  temperance,  veracity,  spirit 
to  resist  oppression,  respect  for  legitimate  authority,  fidelity  in  the  observing  of 
contracts,  disinterestedness,  ardent  patriotism  ;  but  Christian  charity  and  chival- 
rous generosity  were  alike  unknown  to  them. 

'  It  would  have  been  obviously  improper  to  mimic  the  manner  of  any  particular 
age  or  country.  Something  has  been  borrowed,  however,  from  our  own  old 
ballads,  and  more  from  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  great  restorer  of  our  ballad-poetry. 
To  the  Iliad  still  greater  obligations  are  due;  and  those  obligations  have  been 
contracted  with  the  less  hesitation,  because  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  some  of 
the  old  Latin  minstrels  really  had  recourse  to  that  inexhaustible  store  of  poetical 
images. 

'  It  would  have  been  easy  to  swell  this  little  volume  to  a  very  considerable  bulk, 
by  appending  notes  filled  with  quotations ;  but  to  a  learned  reader  such  notes 
are  not  necessary  ;  for  an  unlearned  reader  they  would  have  little  interest ;  and 
the  judgment  passed  both  by  the  learned  and  by  the  unlearned  on  a  work  of  the 
imagination  will  always  depend  much  more  on  the  general  character  and  spirit 
of  such  a  work  than  on  minute  details.' 

Macaulay 's  Preface  to  Horatius  is  as  follows : 

'  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  among  those  parts  of  early  Roman  history 
which  had  a  poetical  origin  was  the  legend  of  Horatius  Codes.  We  have 
several  versions  of  the  story,  and  these  versions  differ  from  each  other  in 
points  of  no  small  importance.  Polybius,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  heard 
the  tale  recited  over  the  remains  of  some  Consul  or  Praetor  descended  from  the 
old  Horatian  patricians ;  for  he  introduces  it  as  a  specimen  of  the  narratives 
with  which  the  Romans  were  in  the  habit  of  embellishing  their  funeral  oratory. 
It  is  remarkable  that,  according  to  him,  Horatius  defended  the  bridge  alone,  and 
perished  in  the  waters.  According  to  the  chronicles  which  Livy  and  Dionysius 
followed,  Horatius  had  two  companions,  swam  safe  to  shore,  and  was  loaded 
with  honours  and  rewards. 

'  These  discrepancies  are  easily  explained.     Our  own  literature,  indeed,  will 


HORATIUS.  131 


furnish  an  exact  parallel  to  what  may  have  taken  place  at  Rome.  It  is  highly 
probable  that  the  memory  of  the  war  of  Porsena  was  preserved  by  compositions 
much  resembling  the  two  ballads  which  stand  first  in  the  Relics  of  Ancient  Eng- 
hsk  Poetry.  In  both  those  ballads  the  English,  commanded  by  the  Percy,  fight 
with  the  Scots,  commanded  by  the  Douglas.  In  one  of  the  ballads  the  Douglas  is 
killed  by  a  nameless  English  archer,  and  the  Percy  by  a  Scottish  spearman  :  in 
the  other,  the  Percy  slays  the  Douglas  in  a  single  combat,  and  is  himself  made 
prisoner.  In  the  former.  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  is  shot  through  the  heart  by  a 
Northumbrian  bowman  :  in  the  latter,  he  is  taken,  and  exchanged  for  the  Percy. 
Yet  both  the  ballads  relate  to  the  same  event,  and  that  an  event  which  probably 
took  place  within  the  memory  of  persons  who  were  alive  when  both  the  ballads 
were  made.     One  of  the  minstrels  says : 

'  Old  men  that  knowen  the  grounde  well  yenoughe 
Call  It  the  battell  of  Otterburn : 
At  Otterburn  began  this  spurne 
Upon  a  inonnyn  day. 
Ther  was  the  dougghte  Doglas  slean : 
The  Perse  never  went  away.' 

'  The  other  poet  sums  up  the  event  in  the  following  lines: 

'  Thys  fraye  bygan  at  Otterborne 
Bytwene  the  nyghte  and  the  day: 
Ther  the  Dowglas  lost  hys  lyfe. 
And  the  Percy  was  lede  away.' 

'  It  is  by  no  means  unlikely  that  there  were  two  old  Roman  lays  about  the 
defence  of  the  bridge ;  and  that,  while  the  story  which  Livy  has  transmitted  to 
us  was  preferred  by  the  multitude,  the  other,  which  ascribed  the  whole  glory  to 
Horatius  alone,  may  have  been  the  favourite  with  the  Horatian  house. 

'  The  following  ballad  is  supposed  to  have  been  made  about  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  after  the  war  which  it  celebrates,  and  just  before  the  taking  of  Rome 
by  the  Gauls.  The  author  seems  to  have  been  an  honest  citizen,  proud  of  the 
military  glory  of  his  country,  sick  of  the  disputes  of  factions,  and  much  given  to 
pining  after  good  old  times  which  had  never  really  existed.  The  allusion,  how- 
ever, to  the  partial  manner  in  which  the  public  lands  were  allotted  could  pro- 
ceed only  from  a  plebeian ;  and  the  allusion  to  the  fraudulent  sale  of  spoils 
marks  the  date  of  the  poem,  and  shows  that  the  poet  shared  in  the  general  dis- 
content with  which  the  proceedings  of  Camillus,  after  the  taking  of  Veii,  were 
regarded. 

'  The  penultimate  syllable  of  the  name  Porsena  has  been  shortened  in  spite  of 
the  authority  of  Niebuhr,  who  pronounces,  without  assigning  any  ground  for 
his  opinion,  that  Martial  was  guilty  of  a  decided  blunder  in  the  line, 

'  Hanc  spectare  manum  Porsena  non  potiiit.' 

'  It  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  any  modern  scholar,  whatever  his  attain- 
ments may  be,  — and  those  of  Niebuhr  were  undoubtedly  immense,  —  can  vent- 
ure to  pronounce  that  Martial  did  not  know  the  quantity  of  a  word  which  he 
must  have  uttered  and  heard  uttered  a  hundred  times  before  he  left  school. 


132  NOTES    TO   MACAU  LAY. 

Niebuhr  seems  also  to  have  forgotten  that  Martial  has  fellow-culprits  to  keep 
him  in  countenance.  Horace  has  committed  the  same  decided  blunder;  for 
he  gives  us,  as  a  pure  iambic  line, 

'  Minacis  aut  Etrusca  Porsenae  manus.' 
'  Silius  Italicus  has  I'epeatedly  offended  in  the  same  way,  as  when  he  says, 
'  Cernilur  effugiens  ardentem  Porsena  dextram;' 
and  again, 

•Clusinum  vulgus,  cum,  Porsena  magna,  jubebas.' 

A  modern  writer  may  be  content  to  err  in  such  company. 

'  Niebuhr's  supposition,  that  each  of  the  three  defenders  of  the  bridge  was  the 
representative  of  one  of  the  three  patrician  tribes,  is  both  ingenious  and  prob- 
able and  has  been  adopted  in  the  following  poem.' 

1-17.  Lars  (English,  Lord)\  a  title  of  the  Etruscan  Kings,  as 
'Pharaoh'  was  of  the  Egyptian.  See  note  on  Aruns,  line  323. 
Clusium;  at  this  time  the  most  important  of  the  Etruscan  cities. 
Tarquin.  The  Tarquins  (an  Etruscan  family)  were  expelled  proba- 
bly during  the  sixth  century  B.C.  Tradition  has  assigned  the  exact 
date  —  509.  Etruscan.  The  Etruscans  were  not  a  Latin  race  and 
their  origin  is  not  definitely  known. 

18-41.  With  the  exception  of  Massilia,  all  the  towns  mentioned 
in  these  lines  can  easily  be  located  on  the  map  of  Etruria.  Volater- 
rae  (Volterra)  still  shows  the  ruins  of  massive  Etruscan  fortifica- 
tions. Populonia  became  a  manufacturing  city  in  earlv  times, 
drawing  its  iron-ore  fi-om  the  island  of  Ilva  (see  line  304).  Pisae  ; 
the  tnodern  Pisa.  Massilia;  Marseilles.  The  fair-haired  slaves 
must  have  been  Gauls.  Clanis ;  a  tributary  of  the  Tiber.  Cortona  ; 
near  lake  Trasimenus.  Remains  of  the  ancient  walls  are  still  to  be 
seen. 

42-57.  Auser  ;  the  Ciminian  hill  (Monte  Cimino) ;  Volsinian 
mere    (Lago  di  Bolsena)  ;  in  Etruria.  Clitumnus;    in  Umbria. 

Byron  has  a  beautiful  description  of  this  stream  in  Childe  Harold  iv. 
66-68.  Macaulay's  lines  54-55  are  from  the  5th  and  6th  lines  ot 
Byron's  Stanza  66. 

58-65.  Arretium  (Arezzo)  in  Etruria  was  early  famous  for  its 
pottery.  In  later  times  it  became  celebrated  as  the  home  of  Mae- 
cenas and  the  birthplace  of  Petrarch.  Umbro  (^Ombrone)  ;  next 
to  the  Arnus  (Arno),  the  largest  river  in  Etruria.  Luna,  the 
most  northerly  city  of  Etruria,  famed  for  its  wine,  cheese  and 
marble. 

66-80.  verses  =  prophecies.  See  the  story  of  the  Sibyl  in  .Eneid 
iii.  441-460.  Traced  from  the  right:  the  Etruscan  manner   of 


HO  RATI  us.  133 


writing.  The  Chinese  write  in  vertical  columns,  beginning  at  what 
we  should  call  the  end  of    the  book.  Nurscia;  the    Etruscan 

Fortuna.  Her  temple  was  at  Volsinii.  See  line  49.  golden  shields. 
See  Rich,  article  Ancile. 

81-97.  tale.  See  note  on  this  word  in  L' Allegro,  67.  Sutrium 
(Sutri):  about  thirty  miles  north-west  of    Rome.  Mamilius, 

son-in-law  of  Tarquinus  Superbus  and  the  most  powerful  of  the 
Latin  princes.  His  home,  Tusculum,  was  only  fifteen  miles  from 
Rome.  It  was  situated  among  the  hills  and  in  later  days  became  a 
favorite  resort  for  wealthy  Romans.  Here  Cicero  had  a  villa  and 
here  he  composed  his  Tusculan  Disputations. 

98-121.  champaign  =  flat,  open  country.  The  English  words 
rJiampaign,  Champagne,  campaign,  camp;  the  French  champagne, 
campagne,  campagnard,  champ;  the  Italian  campagna,  are  all  from 
the  Latin  r«w^«5.     Trace  the  extensions  of  meaning.  litters  (for 

travelers)  and  skins  (for  carrying  wine)  are  commonly  used  in  the 
Madeira  Islands  to-day.  roaring  gate.     Compare  Tennyson's 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 
fallen  every  purple  Caesar's  dome  — 

The'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  for  ever  of  Imperial  Rome  — 

To  Vergil;  15-16. 

122-153.  Tarpeian.  For  the  legend,  see  Classical  Dictionary 
article  '  Tarpeia.'  The  Fathers  of  the  City;  the  Senate  (iSe^eA;  | 

or  Patres  Conscripti.  Crustumerium ;  a  Latin  city  some  ten 

miles  north-east  of  Rome. 

Five  cities  forge  their  arms,  the  Atinian  powers, 
Antemnag,  Tybur  with  her  lofty  towers, 
Ardea  the  proud,  the  Crustumerian  town ; 
All  these  of  old  were  places  of  renown. 

Dryden's  Translation  of  the  ^neid ;  vii.  871-874. 

Verbenna;   Astur:  invented  by  Macaulay.  Ostia;  once  the 

bustling  seaport  of  Rome,  sixteen  miles  to  the  south-west  of  the  city. 
Centuries  of  alluvial  deposits  have  left  the  ancient  site  three  miles 
inland.  Janiculum  ;  a  fortified  hill  opposite  Rome,  on  the  west  bank 
of  the  Tiber ;  connected  with  the  city  by  the  Pons  Sublicius.  See 
CI.  Myths,  p.  359,  and  CI.  Dictionarj^  article  Janus.  I  wis  =  I 

know.  This  is  a  spurious  forin,  arising  frotn  a  confusion  between 
the  Old  English  verb  wiian  (to  know)  and  the  Middle  English 
adverb  i-wis  (certainly),  incorrectly  written  in  the  manuscripts  t  zvis 


134  NOTES    TO    MAC  AULA  Y. 

or   /  -vis.  they    girded    up  their  gowns.     When    the    Trojans 

dragged  the  wooden  horse  into  their  city,  Vergil  tells  us  that  '  all  gird 
themselves  for  the  work'  (^acchigmit  omnes  operi,  vEneid,  ii.  235). 
The  phrase  is  common  in  the  Old  Testament;  seel.  Kings  xviii.  46, 
where  Elijah  '  girded  up  his  loins  and  ran  before  Ahab  to  the  entrance 
of  Jezreel.' 

154-191.  Sir.  This  abbreviated  form  has  acquired  such  common- 
place, nineteenth-century  associations,  that  it  seems  inappropriate 
here.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  used  in  Julius  Csesar  (iv.  3,  246  and 
250)  and  in  mediaeval  ballads,  whose  style  Macaulay  is  imitating. 
Umbrian.  The  Umbrians  preceded  the  Etruscans  in  the  supremacy 
of  Northern  Italy.  port  =  bearing,  carriage.  vest  =  gar- 

ment, dress.  Lucumo.     An  Etruscan  word,  meaning  '  one  in- 

spired,' hence  a  Priest  or  Prince,  and  by  extension  of  meaning,  any 
Etruscan.  Cilnius.     Maecenas  was  of  the  family  of  the  Cilnii ; 

see  note  on  Arretium,  line  58.  fourfold  shield ;   made  of  four 

thicknesses  of  ox-hide.  Tolumnius.     There  was  a  king  of  the 

Veientesof  this  name,  who  was  slain  in  war  with  the  Romans  in  438 
B.C.  Thrasymene  [Trasimenus]  ;  the  largest  lake  in  Etruria. 

The  Romans  were  heavily  defeated  here  by  Hannibal  in  217  B.C. 

192-248.  Fast  by  =  near  to.  Fast  in  this  sense  is  from  the  Old 
English  adjective  '■Fsest'=  fixed,  firm.  In  lines  219-230  Macaulay 
has  given  poetical  expression,  both  just  and  noble,  to  the  spirit  that 
made  Rome  great.  the  holy  maidens  ;  the  Vestal  Virgins.     See 

CI.  Myths,  §  42.  Ramnian;  Titian.     The  three  original  patri- 

cian tribes  of  Rome  were  the  Ramnes,  the  Titles  and  the  Luceres. 
Horatius  is  represented  as  belonging  to  the  Luceres.  See  the  last 
paragraph  of  Macaulay's  Introduction  to  Horatius. 

249-280.  Then  lands  vv^ere  fairly  portioned.  A  certain  portion  of 
the  land  of  conquered  enemies  was  set  aside  by  the  Romans  and 
called  ager publicits.  The  income  from  this  was  supposed  to  go  to 
the  State,  but  by  means  of  what  we  should  call  a  Credit  Mobilier,  the 
patricians  managed  to  turn  most  of  the  proceeds  into  their  own 
purses.  Spoils.      A   reference   to   the    charge   of    peculation 

brought  against  the  patrician  dictator  Camillus.  See  CI.  Dictionary, 
under  his  name.  the  Tribunes,  (originally  two,  afterwards  ten) 

were  first  appointed  in  494  B.C.  It  was  their  duty  to  protect  the 
rights  of  the  plebeians  against  the  encroachments  of  the  patricians ; 
they  gradually  became  the  most  influential  magistrates  of  Rome. 
They  instituted  the  veto  power,  which  has  been  adopted,  in  one  form 
or  another,  by  all  modern  republics. 

281-310.     Tifernum  ;  in  the  northern  part  of  Umbria.  Annus 

s  invented  for  the  occasion  ;   Seius  and  Pious  are  Roman  names,  but 


HORATIUS.  135 


there  is  no  reference  here  to  the  historical  or  legendary  personages 
who  bore  these  names.  Ilva  (Elba).  See  note  on  Populonia,  line 
30.  Nequinum,    in    Umbria,    fifty-six    miles    north    of    Rome. 

After  the  Roman  conquest  (299  B.C.),  it  was  called  Narnia.  The 
waters  of  the  Nar  are  impregnated  with  sulphur;  hence,  pale. 

311-347.  Ocnus  ;  Lausulus.  See  remarks  on  Seius  and  Picus, 
above.  Aruns  is  an  Etruscan  word  used  as  a  title  for  younger 

sons,  the  elder  being  called  Lar  or  Lars.  See  note  on  that  word, 
line  I.  Falerii ;  Volsinium  [Volsinii]  ;  Cosa  :  all  cities  of  south- 

ern Etruria.  See  line  49.  Urgo  or  Gorgon  (Gorgona)  ;  a  small 
island  between  Etruria  and  Corsica.  The  river  Albinia  enters  the 
sea  near  Cosa. 

348-373-     Astur.     See    lines   136-137  and  note.  Luna.     See 

line   62    and    note.  she-wolf's  litter;  an   allusion  to  the  well- 

known  legend  that  Romulus  and  Remus  were  suckled  by  a  she- 
wolf. 

374-397'  In  this  fine  and  spirited  description  of  Action,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  better  a  word.  It  will  not  suffer  by  comparison  with 
that  other  splendid  description  of  Combat,  —  the  fight  between  Fitz 
James  and  Roderick  Dhu,  in  the  Fifth  Canto  of  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake.  Alvernus  ;  near  the  source  of  the  Tiber. 

398-499.  Palatinus;  the  first-settled  of  the  seven  hills  of  Rome. 
See  noteu  on  Byron's  Manfred.  Macaulay  was  in  Rome  in  the  wintei 
of  1838.  He  writes  in  his  Journal :  '  I  then  went  to  the  river,  to  the 
spot  where  the  old  Pons  Sublicius  stood,  and  looked  about  to  see 
how  my  Horafiiis  agrees  with  the  topography.  Pretty  well ;  but 
his  house  must  have  been  on  Mount  Palatine,  for  he  could  never  see 
Mount  Coelius  from  the  spot  where  he  fought.'  father  Tiber 

See  CI.  Myths,  p.  357,  and  CI.  Dictionary,  article,  Tiberis. 

500-541.  I  ween  (518)  =1  think,  suppose;  very  common  in 
Chaucer,  as 

I  wol  with  lusty  herte  fresshe  and  grene 
Seyn  yow  a  song  to  glade  yow,  I  vvene. 

Clerkes  Tale,  1 173-4. 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin  (525).     Here  Macaulay  quotes  as  follows  ■ 

Our  ladye  bare  upp  her  chinne. 

Ballad  of  Childe  Waters. 
Never  heavier  man  and  horse 
Stemmed  a  midnight  torrent's  force ; 


Yet,  through  good  heart  and  our  Lady's  grace 
At  length  he  gained  the  landing  place. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  i.  [29]. 


1S6  NOTES    TO    MACAU  LAY. 

542-589.     Corn-land.     See  note  on  line  261.  a  molten  image. 

A.  Gellius  tells  us  {Nodes  Atiicce,  iv.  5)  that  this  statue  was  once 
struck  by  lightning.  Etruscan  soothsayers  being  consulted  as  to 
the  meaning  of  this  prodigy,  treachei'ously  advised  that  the  statue 
be  placed  in  a  sheltered  spot  where  the  sun's  rays  could  not  shine 
on  it.  Their  treachery  being  discovered,  the  soothsayers  were  put 
to  death  and  the  statue  was  placed  in  an  elevated  spot  on  the  Vul- 
canal :  this  brought  the  state  good  luck  again.  Comitium.     An 

enclosed  space  at  the  foot  of  the  Palatine  hill  where  elections  were 
held  and  justice  administered.  It  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  in- 
cluded in  the  Forum  Romanum.  See  Rich,  articles  Cojyiitium  and 
Forum.  Volscian.     The  territory  of  the  Volsci  touched  that  of 

the  Romans  on  the  south  and  east.  The  two  peoples  were  engaged 
in  almost  constant  border  warfare,  the  Volsci  being  finally  subdued 
in  338  B.C.  See  the  legend  of  Coriolanus,  as  treated  by  Shake- 
speare. Juno.  CI.  Myths,  §  34.  Algidus  (=  Cold);  a 
mountain  in  Latium.  From  Horace  it  appears  that  this  mountain 
was  sacred  to  Diana  (Carmen  Sseculare,  69),  and  that  oak-timber 
grew  there  (Odes,  iv.  4.  57-58). 

Some  critics,  who  find  nothing  so  good  but  they  must  have  better,  claim  that 
Horatius  is  not  poetry.  We  must  allow  that  the  versification,  if  correct,  is  some- 
what mechanical  and  that  the  epithets  show  a  poor  eye  for  color,  but  having 
admitted  this  much,  we  have  admitted  about  all  that  can  fairly  be  said  in  dis- 
praise of  Horatius.  The  theme  chosen  '  is  one  admirably  adapted  to  poetic 
treatment,  the  action  is  well  sustained,  the  characters  are  thoroughly  human 
and  real,  the  imagery  and  diction  are  appropriate  to  the  subject;  above  all,  the 
sentiment  that  pervades  this  poem  is  national  and  noble.  In  this  respect 
Macaulay  reaches  a  higher  ethical  level  than  Scott,  '  the  great  restorer  of  our 
ballad-poetry,"  who  can  seldom  rise  to  anything  loftier  than  the  idea  of  feudal 
allegiance. 

1  No  such  easy  matter,  this  finding  of  a  subject !  Look  at  Shelley's  numerous 
failures. 


LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGRAPHY.  137 


CLOUGH. 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough  was  born  at  Liverpool  in  1819.  When  four  years 
old  his  parents  took  him  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  they  lived  some 
four  years.  Returning  to  England,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  spend  seven  years 
at  Rugby  under  Dr.  Arnold.  At  Oxford  he  paid  more  attention  to  independent 
reading  than  to  required  studies ;  in  spite  of  this  he  was  elected  Fellow  and 
appointed  Tutor  of  Oriel  College.  These  positions  he  resigned  in  1848  on 
account  of  conscientious  scruples,  glad  to  be  free  from  what  he  called  his 
'bondage  in  Egypt."  Instead  of  defending  his  action,  as  was  expected,  by  a 
polemic  against  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  Clough  delighted  his  friends  and 
puzzled  his  enemies  by  publishing  his  charming  Highland  pastoral,  The  Dothie 
of  Tobcr-na-Vuolich  [The  Hut  of  the  Bearded  Well].  The  form  of  this  was 
suggested  by  reading  Longfellow's  Evangeline.  A  visit  to  Rome  during  the 
stormy  days  of  '49  produced  the  Amours  de  Voyage  ;  a  visit  to  Venice  gave  the 
background  for  ZJ/^^nr/^^j,  —  The  Man  of  Two  Souls,  whose  conscience  struggles 
with  the  Spirit  of  the  World.  In  1852  Clough  went  to  seek  his  literary  fortunes 
in  Boston,  making  the  voyage  in  the  same  vessel  with  Thackeray  and  Lowell. 
To  this  voyage  we  owe  the  Songs  in  Absence  and  the  best  parts  of  the  Marl 
Magna.  In  a  few  months  he  returned  to  England  to  accept  a  position  in  the 
Education  Department  of  the  Government.  Eiis  remaining  years  brought  him 
the  happiness  that  comes  from  the  love  of  a  good  woman  and  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  even  lowly  work  faithfully  performed.  He  died  at  Florence  in  November, 
1861,  and  was  buried  in  the  little  Protestant  cemetery  there.  That  same 
resting-place,  a  few  months  before,  had  received  the  remains  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing ;  three  years  later,  the  aged  Landor  came  to  lay  his  bones  beside  theirs. 

Mr.  Lowell  has  said :  '  We  have  a  foreboding  that  Clough,  imperfect  as  he 
was  in  many  respects,  and  dying  before  he  had  subdued  his  sensitive  tempera- 
ment to  the  requirements  of  his  art,  will  be  thought  a  hundred  years  hence  to 
have  been  the  truest  expression  in  verse  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  tendencies, 
the  doubt  and  struggle  towards  settled  convictions,  of  the  period  in  which  he 
lived." 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times. —  Clough  taught  in  verse  the  old  but  oft-forgotten  philoso- 
phy that  Carlyle  taught  in  prose  :  While  the  doing  of  your  nearest  duty  may  not 
solve  the  problem  of  Life,  other  solution  is  there  none.  Unlike  Carlyle,  Clough 
practised  what  he  preached :  this  comes  out  clearly  and  beautifully  in  his  Prose 
Remains,  with  a  Selection  from  his  Letters  and  a  Memoir  :  Edited  by  his  Wife. 


138  NOTES    TO    C LOUGH. 


(Macmillan.)      Waddingtoti' s  Clough,  a  Monograph  (Bell)  is  a  sympathetic  and 
scholarly  study  of  Clough's  life  as  illustrated  by  his  poems. 

Criticism.  —  Dagehot:  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  ii.;  Mr.  dough's  Poems 
Maintains  that  Clough  was  the  '  one  in  a  thousand '  for  whom  the  influence  of 
Arnold  was  not  beneficial ;  that  it  disturbed  the  development  of  Clough  as  a 
thinker  and  a  poet. 

Hutton :  Essays  in  Literary  Criticis?n ;  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  Shows  the 
influence  of  Goethe  and  Wordsworth  on  Clough ;  traces  his  resemblance  to 
Chaucer,  and  points  out  his  habit  of  leaving  half-solved  nearly  every  intellectual 
problem  he  touched. 

Coventry  Patmore :  Principle  in  Art;  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  Places  alow 
value  upon  Clough's  metaphysical  poems,  but  considers  the  Bothie  '  healthy, 
human  and  original.' 

Matthew  Arnold  :  Thyrsis  ;  A  Monody,  to  commemorate  the  Author' s  friend 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who  died  at  Florence,  i86i.  One  of  the  most  beautiful 
elegiac  poems  in  English.  The  scenery  is  the  same  as  in  The  Scholar-Gypsy 
(p.  241  of  this  book).  At  the  end  of  his  lectures  On  Translating  Homer  (Es- 
says in  Criticism,  First  Series)  Mr.  Arnold  has  a  touching  tribute  to  the  sincerity 
and  simplicity  of  Clough's  character. 


QUA   CURSUM   VENTUS. 

This  lyric  represents  the  emotions  of  two  friends  who,  meeting  accidentally  after 
the  lapse  of  years,  find  they  have  drifted  far  apart  in  thought  and  feeling.  The 
imagery  is  free  and  noble ;  the  concluding  chord  is  struck  with  a  hand  firmer  and 
bolder  than  is  usual  with  Clough. 

MARI   MAGNO,    OR   TALES    ON   BOARD.  —  [PROLOGUE.] 

Mrs.  Clough  tells  us  these  Tales  were  written  only  a  few  months  before  the 
author's  death  and  had  not  been  revised  by  him. 

1-23.  These  lines,  of  course,  refer  to  Clough's  voyage  to  the 
United  States  in  1852. 

24-33.  This  description  seems  meant  for  Mr.  Lowell.  Time 
could  not  dull  his  youthful  spirit.  In  1SS2, — thirty  years  after 
these  lines  were  written,  —  I  had  the  honor  of  a  twenty-minute  talk 
with  Mr.  Lowell  in  London,  and  found  him  just  as  here  described  — 
save  that  his  tales  were  not  then  of  Yankeeland  but  of  Cockneyland. 

33-52.  This  sketch  of  a  Nineteenth  Century  Parson  is  as  good  in 
its  way  as  Chaucer's  Fourteenth  Century  Parson  or  Dryden's  Seven- 
teenth Century  Parson.  Canon;  a  dignitary  in  the  Church  of 
England  connected  with  a  cathedral  or  collegiate  church.  With 
the  Dean,  the  Canons  form  the  Chapter  or  governing  body  of  the 
cathedral.  Quarter-Sessions;  A  Criminal  Court  held  quarterly 
in  boroughs  and  counties. 


THE    LAWYER'S   FIRST    TALE.  139 

53-76.  Slow  rises  worth  in  lawyer's  gown  compressed ;  an 
adaptation  of  Johnson's  London,   line   173, 

Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed. 

76-100.  The  Yankee  friend  plays  the  part  played  by  the  Hoste  in 
Chaucer's  Prologue;  see  lines  788-809  of  that  poem.  Indeed  it  is 
impossible  not  to  be  reminded  of  Chaucer  in  reading  Clough  :  there 
is  the  same  sly  humor,  the  same  power  of  character-drawing  and 
the  same  directness  of  phrase. 

In  the  early  editions  of  Clough  the  Prologue  ends  here.  In  the  latest  edition 
these  eight  lines  are  added : 

'  Infandum  jubes  /  'tis  of  long  ago 
If  tell  I  must,  I  tell  the  tale  I  know : 
Yet  the  first  person  using  for  the  freak 
Don't  rashly  judge  that  of  myself  I  speak.' 
So  to  his  tale ;  if  of  himself  or  not 
I  never  learnt ;  we  thought  so  on  the  spot. 
Lightly  he  told  it  as  a  thing  of  old, 
And  lightly  I  repeat  it  as  he  told. 


THE    LAWYER'S    FIRST   TALE. 

A  tale  called  PrimUics  or  Third  Cousins  is,  in  the  most  recent  edition, 
assigned  to  the  Lawyer  as  his  First  Tale ;  while  what  in  our  text  is  called  The 
Lawyer's  First  Tale  is  there  called  The  Clergyman's  First  Tale.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  whether  the  changes  in  Clough  texts  are  based  upon  ms. 
authority,  or  whether  they  are  due  to  the  caprice  of  the  editor. 

135-143-     This  seems  to  be  a  bit  of  autobiography. 

169-173.  Here  we  have  Shelley's  Rule  for  Right  Living,  which 
may  be  briefly  stated  as  :  If  you  see  a  thing  you  want,  take  it.  —  It 
is  the  application  of  tlris  principle  that  makes  Penitentiaries  a  social 
necessity. 

176-180.  The  influence  of  Wordsworth  is  perceptible  here.  Com- 
pare the  Ode  en  the  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

183-184.  Compare  dough's  poem  Wen  Gott  Betriigt,  1st  Wohl 
Betrogen  (Whom  God  Beguiles,  Is  Well  Beguiled). 

191-199.     Compare  Byron's 

Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 
'Tis  woman's  whole  existence. 

205-210.     Compare  Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall,  17-20. 


140  NOTES    TO    CLOUGH. 


273-274-     Compare  Portia's  soul-portraying  speech  beginning, 

You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  :  — 

Merchant  of  Venice,  iii.  2. 

278-279.  love-in-idleness.  See  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
ii.  2,  106-ioy. 

Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell. 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 

Before,  milk-white;  now  purple  with  love's  wound 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

301-302.     gave.     This  is  certainly  a  slip  ior  give. 

321-322.  The  rime  shows  the  common  pronunciation  of  clerk  in 
England. 

352.  They  met  —  I  know  not  —  in  each  other's  arms.  Keats 
would  have  ended  the  poem  at  this  line.  But  Clough  saw  deeper 
into  life  than  the  poet  who  summed  up  his  philosophy  in 

Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


LIFE    OF   ARNOLD.  141 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD. 


Matthew  Arnold,  eldest  son  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold  of  Rugby,  was  born 
in  1822.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester,  Rugby  and  Oxford.  Like  his  friend 
Clough,  Arnold  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  but  resigned  this  position 
within  two  years.  His  Strayed  Reveller  and  Other  Poems,  published  in  1848, 
show  Hellenic  form  and  Wordsworthian  sentiment.  In  1851  he  was  appointed 
a  Government  Inspector  of  Schools;  in  thi*  occupation  he  spent  more  than 
thirty  years  of  his  life  and  rendered  good  service  in  elevating  the  tone  of  primary 
and  secondary  education  in  England.  His  unsparing  criticism  of  the  vulgarity 
and  sordidness  of  middle-class  life  earned  him  the  desirable  hatred  of  the  Philis- 
tines, to  whom  he  never  grew  weary  of  preaching  their  crying  need  for  Culture, 
for  Sweetness  and  for  Light.  From  1857-1867  he  was  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford  ;  his  Essays  (published  under  various  titles)  set  a  new  standard  for  Criti- 
cism in  England  as  Sainte-Beuve  had  already  done  for  France.  His  numerous 
theological  writings  attempt  to  supply  a  ttoO  o-tm  for  those  who  feel  the  ground  of 
old  beliefs  cut  from  under  them  by  the  sharp-dividing  spade  of  Science ;  his 
limitations  as  a  political  philosopher  may  be  illustrated  by  noting  that  the  most 
interesting  thing  in  his  Irish  Essays  is  the  little  critique  on  The  French  Play  in 
London.  In  1883  and  1886  he  visited  our  country:  in  his  Civilization  in  the 
Utiited  States  he  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  us  some  unpleasant  but  wholesome 
truths  about  ourselves.  His  Complete  Poems  were  collected  in  1885  ;  by  these 
his  memory  will  be  preserved,  more  effectually  perhaps  than  even  by  his  literary 
criticism.  His  death  (1888)  was  sudden,  —  thus  fulfilling  almost  literally  the 
desire  he  had  expressed  in  his  poem,  A  Wish  : 

I  ask  not  that  my  bed  of  death 

From  bands  of  greedy  heirs  be  free ; 
For  these  besiege  the  latest  breath 

Of  fortune's  favored  sons,  not  me. 


Spare  me  the  whispering,  crowded  room. 
The  friends  who  come,  and  gape,  and  go; 

The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom, — 

All  which  makes  death  a  hideous  show! 

Nor  bring,  to  see  me  cease  to  live 
Some  doctor  full  of  phrase  and  fame, 

To  shake  his  sapient  head,  and  give 
The  ill  he  cannot  cure  a  name. 


1-42  LIFE    AND    BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Bring  none  of  these ;  but  let  me  be, 
While  all  around  in  silence  lies, 

Moved  to  the  window  near,  and  see 
Once  more,  before  my  dying  eyes, — 

Bathed  in  the  sacred  dews  of  morn 
The  wide  aerial  landscape  spread, — 

The  world  which  was  ere  I  was  born, 
The  world  which  lasts  when  I  am  dead; 

There  let  me  gaze  till  I  become 

In  soul,  with  what  I  gaze  on,  wed! 
To  feel  the  universe  my  home ; 


Thus  feeling,  gazing,  might  I  grow 
Composed,  refreshed,  ennobled,  clear; 

Then  willing  let  my  spirit  go 

To  work  or  wait  elsewhere  or  here ! 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  For  biographical  articles,  see  Poole's  Index  under  the 
year  of  Mr.  Arnold's  death  (1888).  Most  easily  accessible  to  American  read- 
ers are  the  article  on  p.  41  of  Appletons  Annual  Cyclopcsdia  for  1S88  and  the 
article  by  Augustine  Birr  ell  in  Scribner's  Magazine,  Novernber,  1888  (reprinted 
with  additions  in  his  Res  Judicatce).  For  the  History,  see  McCarthy's  History 
of  our  Ozun  Times:    Cap.  xli.-lxvii.  and  Appendix  (1859-1886). 

Criticism.  —  Clough  :  Review  of6ome  Poems  by  Alexander  Smith  and  Mat- 
thew Arnold  (N.  A.  Review,  July,  /8jj.  Reprinted  in  the  Prose  Remains.) 
Interesting  chiefly  on  account  of  the  close  personal  relations  of  Clough  and 
Arnold.  Condemns  the  Empedocles  (a  judgment  in  which  the  author  con- 
curred) and  the  general  '  poetic  dubiousness  '  of  the  poet's  tone.  Perhaps  to 
this  frank  and  just  criticism  is  due,  in  part,  the  clearer  form  and  firmer  treat- 
ment of  Arnold's  later  verse. 

Hutton  :  Essays  in  Literary  Criticism  ;  The  Poetry  of  Matthew  Arnold.  Points 
out  how  the  poet  recognizes  (with  Goethe)  the  spiritual  unrest  of  the  day,  and 
how  (with  Wordsworth)  he  finds,  in  the  contemplation  of  Nature,  calm  for  this 
unrest ;  decides  that  his  power  of  expression  lies  in  a  certain  '  delicate  simplicity 
of  taste,"  and  in  a  nobly  rhetorical  cast  of  thought.  (This  fine  essay  is  a  long 
and  thought-compelling  piece  of  exposition,  which  no  summary  can  represent 
even  faintly). 

Swinburne  :  Essays  and  Studies  ;  Matthew  Arnold's  New  Poems.  This  Essay 
was  (fortunately)  written  before  the  Shelley-Byron-Arnold-Svvinburne  contro- 
versy; it  does  full  justice  —  more  than  justice  —  to  the  form  of  Arnold's  verse, 
abounding  in  such  exaggerated  (and  awkwardly  expressed)  sentiments  as  this  : 
'  No  poem  in  any  language  can  be  more  perfect  [than  Thyrsis]  as  a  model 
of  style,  unsurpassable  certainly,  it  may  be   unattainable."     This   essay   also 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY.  143 

condemns  unrimed  lyrics  and  English  hexameters  ;  it  criticises  with  just  sever- 
ity Arnold's  limited  appreciation  of  the  great  French  poets. 

Birr  ell :   Res  yudicatce  ;   Matthew  Arnold,     For   popular  reading,  a  pleas- 
ant resume  of  Arnold  as  poet,  theologian  and  critic. 


THE    SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 

1-30.  cotes  =  sheep-folds.  The  line  in  which  this  word  occin-s 
is  evidenth'  a  reminiscence  of  Comus,  344  : 

The  folded  flocks,  penned  in  their  wattled  cotes. 

cross ;  recross  :  infinitives  depending  upon  seen.  cruse.     For 

the  story  with  which  this  word  is  commonly  associated,  see  I.  Kings 
xvii.  8-16.  Oxford's  towers.  Thougii  a  severe  critic  of  the  relig- 
ious faith  whicli  Oxford  represents,  Mr.  Arnold  never  freed  himself 
—  nor  wished  to  free  himself- — ^from  the  spell  which  Oxford  must 
exercise  over  poetic  minds.  'Beautiful  city!'  he  writes;'  'so 
venerable,  so  lovely,  so  unravaged  by  the  fierce  intellectual  life  of 
our  century,  so  serene ! 

'  There  are  our  young  barbarians,  all  at  play !  And  yet,  steeped 
in  sentiment  as  she  lies,  spreading  her  gardens  to  the  moonlight, 
and  whispering  from  her  towers  the  last  enchantments  of  the  Middle 
Age,  who  will  deny  that  Oxford,  by  her  ineffable  charm,  keeps  ever 
calling  us  near  to  the  true  goal  of  all  of  us,  to  the  ideal,  to  perfec- 
tion, —  to  beauty,  in  a  word,  which  is  only  truth  seen  from  another 
side .''  —  nearer,  perhaps,  than  all  the  science  of  Tiibingen.  Adorable 
dreamer,  whose  heart  has  been  so  romantic !  who  hast  given  thyself 
so  prodigally,  given  thyself  to  sides  and  to  heroes  not  mine,  only 
never  to  the  Philistines !  home  of  lost  causes,  and  forsaken  beliefs, 
and  unpopular  names,  and  impossible  loyalties  !  what  example  could 
ever  keep  down  the  Philistine  in  ourselves,  what  teacher  could  ever 
so  save  us  from  that  bondage  to  which  we  are  all  prone,  that  bondage 
which  Goethe,  in  those  incomparable  lines  on  the  death  of  Schiller, 
makes  it  his  friend's  highest  praise  (and  nobly  did  Schiller  deserve 
the  praise)  to  have  left  miles  out  of  sight  behind  him;  —  the  bond- 
age of  ivas  tins  alle  b'dndigt^  das  Gemeine  f ' 

31-70.  Glanvil.  '  There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University 
of  Oxford,  who  was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there ; 
and  at  last  to  join  himself  to  a  company  of  vagabond  gypsies. 
Among  these  extravagant  people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty  of  his 

1  Preface  to  the  Essays  in  Criticism,  First  Series. 


144  NOTES    TO    ARNOLD. 

carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their  love  and  esteem  as  that 
they  discovered  to  him  their  mystery.  After  he  had  been  a  pretty 
while  exercised  in  the  trade,  there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of 
scholars,  who  had  formerly  been  of  his  acquaintance.  They  quickly 
spied  out  their  old  friend  among  the  gypsies  ;  and  he  gave  them  an 
account  of  the  necessity  which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and 
told  them  that  the  people  he  went  with  were  not  such  impostors  as 
they  were  taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional  kind  of  learning 
among  them,  and  could  do  wonders  by  the  power  of  imagination, 
their  fancy  binding  that  of  others  ;  that  himself  had  learned  much  of 
their  art,  and  when  he  had  compassed  the  whole  secret,  he  intended, 
he  said,  to  leave  their  company,  and  give  the  world  an  account 
of  what  he  had  learned.'  —  Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatizing, 
1661. 

71-130.  Mr.  Arnold's  theory  of  an  ethical  standard  as  the  best  test 
for  poetry  receives  no  help  from  his  practice  in  these  lines.  Mr. 
Courthope  is  quick  to  see  this,  and  pertinently  questions  :  '  '  . 
will  Mr.  Arnold  ever  persuade  any  reader  of  average  sensibility  that 
what  ought  to  be  enjoyed  in  the  Scholar-Gipsy  is  rather  the  moral 
of  the  poem,  than  the  beautiful  and  affecting  images  of  the  Oxford- 
shire landscape  with  which  the  poet  has  surrounded  the  story.'' 
Never!'  Christ-Church  (129):  the  largest  college  of  the  Uni- 

versity. The  chapel  of  Christ-Church  is  also  the  cathedral  of  the 
diocese  of  Oxford. 

131-140.  yew-tree.  The  yew  is  commonly  planted  in  English 
grave-yards.  It  grows  slowly,  lives  long,  and  has  thick  dark  foliage. 
With  this  line  compare  Wordsworth's  splendid  poem,  Yew-Trees,  no 
portion  of  which  can  be  torn  from  its  context  without  irreparable 
loss. 

141-170.  This  note  of  lassitude  is  struck  often  —  perhaps  too 
often  —  in  Arnold's  poems.  See  the  Stanzas  in  Memory  of  the  Au- 
thor of  Obermann  For  the  author's  less  desponding  mood,  see  his 
Rugby  Chapel.  teen  (147)  =  grief,  sorrow;  fi-om  the  Old  Eng- 

lish '  te6na'  =  injury.  Line  165  =  Which  many  attempts  and  many 
failures  bring. 

171-180.     it,  in  line  180,  refers  to  spark  from  heaven  in  line  171. 

181-190.  This  seems  to  fit  Carlyle  as  well  as  any  one,  but  it  is 
probably  intended  for  a  type  rather  than  for  an  individual. 

191-230.     Averse  as  Dido. 

In  vain  he  thus  attempts  her  mind  to  move 
With  tears  and  prayers  and  late  repenting  love; 

iThc  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature,  Essay  I. 


THE    FORSAKEN  MERMAN.  145 

Disdainfully  she  looked,  then  turning  round 
But  fixed  her  eyes  unmoved  upon  the  ground, 
And  what  he  says  and  swears  regards  no  more 
Than  the  deaf  rocks  when  the  loud  billows  roar. 

(Dryden's  Translation.) 

For  the  entire  episode,  see  ^Eneid  vi.  450-476. 

231-250.  Notice  the  force  of  this  elaborate  and  exquisitely  sus- 
tained image ;  how  the  mind  is  carried  back  from  these  turbid 
days  of  sick  unrest  to  the  clear  dawn  of  a  fresh  and  healthy  civiliza 
tion.  For  another  example  of  a  poem  that  closes  with  a  figure  not 
less  beautiful  and  not  less  ennobling,  see  Arnold's  Sohrab  and 
Rustum. 

THE    FORSAKEN   MERMAN. 

The  title  of  this  poem  inevitably  brings  to  mind  Tennyson's  two  poems,  The 
Merman  and  The  Mermaid.  A  comparison  will  show  that,  in  this  instance  at 
least,  the  Oxford  poet  has  touched  his  subject  not  less  melodiously  and  with  finer 
and  deeper  feeling.  — Margaret  v/ill  not  listen  to  her 

Children's  voices  wild  with  pain;  — 

dearer  to  her  is  the  selfish  desire  to  save  her  own  soul  than  is  the  light  in  the 
eyes  of  her  little  Mermaiden,  dearer  than  the  love  of  the  king  of  the  sea  who 
yearns  for  her  with  sorrow-laden  heart  Here  is  there  an  infinite  tenderness 
and  an  infinite  tragedy. 


146  NOTES    TO    BROWNING. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


The  father  of  Robert  Browning  was  a  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England  whose 
ear  was  attuned  to  other  melodies  than  the  chink  of  gold  upon  the  counter :  the 
companions  of  his  leisure  hours  were  Horace,  Anacreon  and  the  Talmud.  The 
poet  was  born  in  London  in  1812.  Shelley  and  Keats  first  stirred  the  singing 
spirit  within  him ;  their  influence  is  easily  perceptible  in  PduUiie  (1833).  In 
Paracelsus  (1835)  he  found  a  congenial  subject,  — the  History  of  a  Soul :  upon 
this  theme  he  constructed  the  first  in  his  long  series  of  psychological  epics.  For 
Macready  he  wrote  his  first  play,  Strafford  (1837),  followed  in  the  next  eight 
years  by  six  other  plays.  The  devotees  of  Browning  assure  us  that  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  any  of  these  plays  have  been  acted,  they  have  succeeded.  Is 
it  so  ?  Why  then  so  rare  ? —  In  the  preface  to  Sordello,  Browning  clearly  states 
his  poetic  belief:  '  My  stress  lay  on  the  incidents  in  the  development  of  a  soul  : 
little  else  is  worth  study."  Mrs.  Carlyle  read  this  poem  (?)  and  declared  herself 
unable  to  make  out  whether  Sordello  was  a  man,  a  city  or  a  book ;  other  read- 
ers not  less  intelligent,  had  even  more  disastrous  experiences.  The  21,116  lines 
(to  be  exact)  in  that  Realistic  Romance  of  the  Police  Court,  The  Ring  and  The 
Book,  argue  an  astonishing  perseverance  in  both  author  and  reader,  but  for  the 
few  and  evil  days  allotted  man  upon  this  earth,  most  people  will  prefer  the  lyrics 
in  Pippa  Passes  and  the  incomparable  portraits  in  Men  and  Women  (1855)  and 
in  Dramatis  Personae  (1864).  In  1846  Browning  married  Elizabeth  Barrett  and 
from  that  time  until  her  death  (1861)  resided  principally  in  Italy.  The  poems 
of  these  fifteen  years  are  full  of  rich  Italian  coloring.  During  the  last  twenty- 
five  years  of  his  life  Browning  wrote  a  large  amount  of  religious  and  metaphys- 
ical verse,  but  very  little  poetry,  save  when  he  rendered  into  English  the  Alkestis 
of  Euripides  and  the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus.  To  compensate  him  for  the 
decline  of  his  poetic  faculty,  he  enjoyed  perfect  health,  an  easy  fortune,  un- 
bounded faith  in  God,  Immortality  and  Humanity,  and  the  worship  of  the 
appreciative  and  the  undiscriminating  banded  together  in  the  Browning  Society. 
He  died  in  Venice  in  1889  and  was  duly  honored  with  a  grave  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  The  innumerable  magazine  articles  that  appeared  at 
Browning's  death  will  be  found  classified  in  Poole's  Index  for  i8<)0.  Sharp's 
Life  of  Robert  Browning  (Gt.  Wr.)  is  written  by  one  who  knew  the  poet  well : 
while  it  has  the  charm  of  a  story  told  by  an  eye-witness  and  a  disciple,  it  is  yet 
free  from  that  hero-worship  which  makes  so  much  Browning-talk  a  weariness 


A     TRANSCRIPT    FROM   EURIPIDES.  147 

to  the  flesh.  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Browning,  by  Mrs.  Souther  land 
Orr,  indulges  in  much  personalia,  and  contains  some  interesting  remarks  by 
Browning  on  his  own  works. 

Criticism.  — The  world  of  Browning  Criticism  is  so  wide  that  any  explora- 
tion of  it  in  these  Notes  would  be  quite  impossible.  All  that  can  here  be  done 
is  to  indicate  some  safe  guides  for  those  who  would  climb  its  sublimities,  de- 
scend into  its  abysses,  and  skirt  around  its  banalities. 

F.  Alary  Wilson:  A  Primer  of  Brotuning.  Contains  a  brief  account  of  the 
life  of  the  poet,  of  the  characteristics  of  his  poetry,  and  a  series  of  simple 
introductions. to  the  poems. 

W.  y.  Alexander :  Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of  Browning.  Somewhat 
more  advanced  in  thought  and  style  than  the  foregoing :  contains  a  statement 
of  the  scope  of  Browning's  philosophy,  with  careful  interpretation  of  a  few  of 
the  principal  poems. 

G.  W.  Cooke  :  A  Guide  Book  to  the  Poetic  and  Dramatic  Works  of  Robert 
Browning.  Contains,  among  other  things,  (i)  a  carefully  selected  and  (necessa- 
rily) short  Bibliography  of  the  Best  Things  said  of  Browning;  (2)  mention  of  the 
dates,  places,  and  circumstances  under  which  the  poems  were  written ;  (3)  sources 
of  the  poems;  (4)  Browning's  own  explanations  of  his  poems  ;  (5)  explanations 
of  many  historical,  biographical,  and  artistic  allusions ;  (6)  descriptions  of  the 
principal  characters  in  Browning's  poems  ;  (7)  accounts  of  the  stage  presentation 
of  such  dramas  as  have  been  acted. 

Edward  Berdoe  :  The  Browjimg  Cyclopadla.  An  exhaustive  Dictionary  of 
the  sources  of  the  poems  and  of  the  historical  and  literary  material  and  allu- 
sions necessary  to  an  understanding  of  them.  Contains  also  a  Bibliography 
(much  inferior  to  that  in  Cooke)  and  a  Table  of  Contents  of  the  publications 
of  the  Browning  Society. 


A   TRANSCRIPT    FROM   EURIPIDES. 

The  full  title  of  the  poem  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  is  Balaustlon's 
Adventure,  Including  a  Transcript  from  Euripides.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the 
year  413  B.C.,  when  the  inhabitants  of  Rhodes  determined  to  transfer  their 
allegiance  from  Athens  to  Sparta.  Balaustion  (Wild-pomegranate-flower),  a 
maiden  of  Kameiros  in  Rhodes,  was  so  loyal  to  the  Athenian  tradition,  that  she 
persuaded  her  family  to  fly  with  her  to  Athens.  Driven  out  of  their  course  by 
a  storm,  they  were  chased  by  a  pirate  to  the  entrance  of  the  port  of  Syracuse. 
The  hostile  Syracusans,  cherishing  bitter  memories  of  the  recent  Athenian 
expedition  against  their  city,  refused  harborage  to  the  vessel  carrying  Balaustion 
and  her  friends ;  in  despair,  they  were  about  to  turn  and  face  death  from  the 
pirate,  when  the  Syracusans  demanded  if  any  on  board  could  recite  verses 
from  Euripides.     Balaustion  knew  the  Alkestls  almost  by  heart :  — 

We  landed;  the  whole  city,  soon  astir 
Came  rushing  out  of  gates  in  common  joy 
To  the  suburb  temple;  there  they  stationed  me 
O'  the  topmost  step :  and  plain  I  told  the  play. 
Just  as  I  saw  it;  what  the  actors  said, 
And  what  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw  the  while, 


148  NOTES    TO    BROIVNING. 

At  our  Kameiros  theatre,  clean-scooped 
Out  of  a  hill-side,  with  the  sky  above 
And  sea  before  our  seats  in  marble  row; 
Told  it,  and,  two  days  more,  repeated  it. 
Until  they  sent  us  on  our  way  again 
With  good  words  and  great  wishes.  — 

See  note  en  Childe  Harold,  iv.  i6,  for  the  incident  in  Plutarch  on  which 
Balaustion's  adventure  is  founded. 

Non-classical  readers  who  are  interested  to  notice  in  what  respects  Browning 
has  departed  from  his  original,  should  consult  Potter's  Translation  of  Euripi- 
des (Morley's  Universal  Library,  No. 54)  ;  R.  G.Moulton's  Browning's  Balaus- 
tion,  a  Beautiful  Perversion  of  Euripides'  Alcestis  (Browning  Society's 
Papers,  Part  xiii.  No.  67) ;  y.  R.  Dennett  in  the  N.  Y.  Nation,  xiii.  178. 

1-3.  Admetos.  King  Admetos  had  been  sick  unto  death :  at 
tlie  request  of  Apollo,  the  Fates  had  agreed  to  spare  his  life,  on 
condition  that  some  one  would  die  in  lais  stead.  Of  all  his  friends 
and  dependents,  his  faithful  wife  Alkestis  was  the  only  one  found 
willing  to  save  him.  This  sacrifice  Adinetos  meanly  accepted. 
The  play  opens  on  the  day  appointed  for  her  death.  —  For  the  story 
in  full  see  CI.  Myths,  §  80-81. 

4-33.     Chorus  of    Ancient    Servitors.  Pelias :    CI.    Myths, 

§  147.  Paian  (Paeon):  in  Homer,  the  god  of  Healing.     (See 

Iliad  V.  900-904).  Later,  used  as  here,  as  an  epithet  of  Apollo, 
dipt  locks  (25).  Compare  ^Eneid  iv.  693-706,  from  which  we 
gather  it  was  a  common  belief  that  no  one  could  die  until  Proserpina 
had  dipt  a  lock  from  the  head  and  thus  consigned  the  soul  to  Pluto. 

34-52.  lolkos  (lolcus)  :  an  ancient  city  of  Thessaly.  The  Argo- 
nautic  expedition  started  thence. 

53-54.  Here  Admetos  speaks.  55-60 :  Alkestis.  In  58-60  she 
quotes  the  words  of  Charon.  60-63:  Admetos.  64-69  :  Alkestis. 
70-72:  Admetos.  73-78:  Alkestis.  79-86:  Admetos. 

87-149.  Passages  of  such  pathos  as  this,  make  Euripides  the 
most  rr^odern  in  tone  of  all  the  Greek  poets. 

150-178.  A  little  care  in  study  will  show  the  lines  appropriate  to 
each  character.  In  line  166,  Alkestis  means  it  is  not  necessary  that 
Admetos  should  sacrifice  himself:  her  death  is  sufficient  to  appease 
the  Fates. 

179-200.  There  is  nothing  in  the  original  to  correspond  with 
these  lines:  they  are,  of  course,  the  interpretation  of  Balaustion. 
A  great  voice :  the  voice  of  Herakles.  this  dispirited  old  age :  the 
chorus  of  Ancient  Servitors. 

201-203.  Herakles  and  Admetos  were  bound  by  ties  of  long  friend- 
ship. 

204-227.     Balaustion  again,  — and  so  in  many  subsequent  places 


A     TRANSCRTPT   FROM   EURIPIDES.  149 


that  will  hardly  need  indication.  their  monarch  tried,  etc.  (218) 

=  their  monarch  tried  to  discover  if  any  loved  him  more  than  he 
loved  them. 

228-248.  In  the  lines  omitted  after  line  248,  Admetos  gives  ambig- 
;!ous  answers  to  Herakles'  questions  as  to  the  cause  of  grief.  This 
is  a  weak  point  in  the  play  :  Admetos  admits  that  he  '  must  inter  a 
certain  corpse  to-day,'  and  the  dramatist  must  dower  Herakles  with 
preternatural  stupidity  to  keep  him  from  stumbling  on  the  true  ex- 
planation. 

243-271.  In  this  episode  the  character  of  x\dmetos  appears  in  its 
most  favorable  light.     In  the  main,  he  is  a  contemptible  fellow. 

272-293.     the  snake  :  the  Lernean  Hydra.  the  lion's  hide  :  the 

Nemean  lion.     For  the  exploits  of  Herakles,  see  CI.  Myths,  §  139- 

H3- 

294-331.  Chaplet  (317);  myrtle-sprays  (318).  See  Alexander's 
Feast,  line  7,  and  note  thereon. 

332-359.  Tiruns  (Tiryns)  a  city  in  Argolis,  where  Herakles  made 
his  home  during  the  twelve  years  in  which  he  was  accomplishing 
his  Twelve  Labors.  Hence  he  is  sometimes  called  Tirynthius. 
boltered  =  clotted.  This  is  a  very  rare  word  that  seems  to  have 
survived  only  in  the  Warwickshire  dialect.  Shakespeare  (a  War- 
wickshire man)  uses  it  in  Macbeth,  iv.  i.  123. 

For  the  blood-bolter'd  Banquo  smiles  upon  me. 

Kore  (Core)  =  The  Maiden,  a  title  of  Persephone  (Proserpina). 

360-397.  By  the  stand-stiU :  by  the  stopping  of  the  funeral  proces- 
sion on  its  return  from  *^he  tomb.  peplos  (peplum)  :  an  upper 
garment  worn  over  one  arm  ai.d  draped  at  will  around  the  body : 
richer  and  more  voluminous  than  the  kimaiion. 

398-419.  Too  late  Admetos  recognizes  his  own  selfishness  and 
the  worth  of  her  he  had  lost. 

420-482.  the  king  o' the  Bistones  =  Diomedes.  His  horses  lived 
on  human  flesh ;  to  capture  them  was  the  eighth  labor  of  Herakles. 

483-535.  This  is  certainly  a  strong  dramatic  situation.  Com- 
pare Shakespeare's  treatment  of  a  similar  theme  in  the  Winter's 
Tale,  V.  3. 

536-588.  Do  we  feel  assured  that  the  soul  of  Admetos  is 
thoroughly  purified  by  suffering.''  He  says  so,  but  he  is  not  put  tp 
the  proof  by  action. 

589-702.  And  save,  that  sire,  his  offspring  (659)  =  And  may  that 
sire  [Zeus]   save  his  offspring.  the  son  of  Sthenelos  (683)  = 

Eurystheus,  to  whom  Herakles  was  made  subject  by  the  gods  for 
the  space  of  twelve  years.     See  note  on  Tiruns,  line  334. 


150  NOTES    TO    BROWNING. 

703-718.  Sophokles  :  generally  acknowledged  to  be  a  much  greater 
dramatist  than  Euripides.  Of  the  130  plays  ascribed  to  him,  only 
seven  have  come  down  to  us ;  the  Alkestis  is  not  among  these.  The 
only  direct  evidence  we  have  that  Sophocles  wrote  a  play  on  this 
subject,  is  a  line  which  Plutarch  quotes  in  his  Treatise  on  Oracles 
(xiv. )  and  which  he  ascribes  to  a  play  of  Sophocles  called  Admetos. 
Dionusiac.  The  Alkestis  of  Euripides  was  first  performed  at  Athens 
iH  43S  B.C.  in  the  theatre  dedicated  to  Dionysus  (Bacchus).  Aris- 
totle, in  his  Poiiiics,  tells  us  that  Tragedy  originated  with  tha  leaders 
of  the  Dithyramb,  —  originally  nothing  more  than  the  song  of 
peasants  celebrating  the  vintage.     See  CI.  Myths,  §  46.  crater, 

in  its  original  (Greek)  meaning  of  '  goblet.'  The  Human  with 

his  droppings  of  warm  tears.     This  line  is  from  Mrs.  Browning's 
Wine  of  Cyprus. 

Despite  jagged  and  uncouth  lines  not  a  few,  every  reader  of  Browning  must 
feel  how  much  that  poet  gains  \v\.  presentation,  when  he  brings  himself  under  the 
clarifying  and  restraining  power  of  even  so  ordinary  a  stylist  as  Euripides.  Ex- 
perience seems  to  show  plainly  that  no  poetry  lacking  in  clearness  of  expres- 
sion and  beauty  of  form  can  exercise  any  wide-spread  or  permanent  influence ; 
Browning  either  was  unable  or  was  too  careless  to  give  this  form  and  this  ex- 
pression to  the  great  majority  of  his  verses :  we  may  be  tolerably  sure,  then, 
Siat  a  volume  or  two  will  contain  all  of  his  poetry  that  future  ages  (less  realistic 
than  this)  will  care  to  read.  Theologians  and  metaphysicians  may  long  con- 
tinue to  gain  ideas  from  him,  but  neither  theology  nor  metaphysics  is  the  prov- 
ince of  poetry.  If  this  judgment  be  wrong,  I  err  in  good  company  :  Matthew 
Arnold  did  not  consider  it  worth  while  to  read  any  of  Browning's  later  works, 
and  Schopenhauer  asserts,  even  too  emphatically  perhaps,  that  everything  has 
been  sung,  everything  has  been  cursed  in  due  order,  and  that  with  poetry  every- 
thing is  now  a  matter  of  st^le. 


LIFE    OF    TENNYSON.  151 


TENNYSON. 


Alfred  Tennyson,  the  son  of  a  country  clergyman,  was  born  at  Somersby 
Rectory  in  Lincolnshire  in  1809  (the  same  year  as  Mr.  Gladstone).  In  his 
twelfth  year  he  composed  an  epic  of  four  or  five  thousand  lines,  —  fortunately 
lost.  He  missed  the  doubtful  blessing  of  rough  school-boy  life  at  Eton  or 
Harrow,  receiving  instead  thorough  classical  instruction  from  his  father,  and  a 
thousand  pleasant  lessons  from  Nature,  who  unclasped  for  him  her  illuminated 
missal  as  he  roamed  by  hill-side,  brook  and  sea-shore.  At  Cambridge  (1827- 
1831)  he  took  the  Chancellor's  Prize  for  the  best  English  poem;  among  his 
competitors  were  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  and  Richard  Monckton  Milnes  (Lord 
Houghton).  In  1830  appeared  his  Poems,  C/j/^/ /.j/vVa/,  among  which  were 
many  pieces  now  famous  :  Clai'lbel,  Mariana,  The  Poet,  Oriana,  Recollections 
of  the  Arabian  Nights.  Two  years  later  came  another  volume;  in  this  we  find 
The  Miller  s  Daughter,  QSnone,  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  The  Lotus  Eaters. 
These  were  written  in  Tennyson's  twenty-third  year ;  among  our  great  poets 
only  Milton  and  Keats  have  shown  such  maturity  at  such  an  early  age.  Some 
of  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  not  without  defects ;  passing  over  their 
virtues,  the  Quarterly  seized  upon  these  defects  and  held  them  up  to  ridicule. 
Unnecessarily  hurt  by  these  strictures,  Tennyson  remained  silent  for  ten 
years  :  in  1842  he  gave  to  the  world  another  volume  in  which  (to  mention  only 
the  best)  were  Ulysses,  Locksley  Hall  and  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere. 
Emerson's  criticism  on  this  volume  is  wisdom  in  a  nutshell:  Tennyson, he  says, 
'  is  endowed  precisely  in  the  points  where  Wordsworth  wanted.  There  is  no 
finer  ear  nor  more  command  over  the  keys  of  language.  Color,  like  the  dawui 
flows  over  the  horizon  from  his  pencil  in  waves  so  rich  that  we  do  not  miss  the 
central  ''brm.'  —  Tennyson's  reputation  was  now  firmly  established ;  The  Princess, 
(1847),  V.  we  excise  the  lyrics,  hardly  added  to  it,  nor  did  Maud  (1855).  In  1850, 
upon  the  death  of  Wordsworth,  he  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate  and  in  the  same 
year  published  In  Memoriam.  Four  Idylls  of  the  A7«^  appeared  in  1859  ;  others 
were  added  at  varying  intervals,  rounding  the  episodes  into  a  complete  Epic. 
The  weak-motived,  slow-evolving  dramas  that  Tennyson  put  forth  during  his 
old  age,  make  us  feel  that  his  reputation  would  have  been  higher  had  he  lived 
no  longer  than  did  Shakespeare.  In  the  idealizing  epic,  with  an  ornate  grace 
all  his  own,  he  is  but  little  below  the  masters ;  in  the  lyric  he  is  unsurpassed  ;  in 
the  drama  —  in  that  highest  form  of  literary  art,  where  character  is  painted  in 
with  the  colors  of  both  emotion  and  action  —  in  this  he  is  deficient. 

Tennyson  was  raised  to  the  peerage  in  1884  and  died,  full  of  years  and  honors 
in  October,  1892. 


152  NOTES    TO    TENNYSON. 

Here  is  Carlyle's  portrait  of  him  in  his  prime  :  '  A  great  shock  of  rough,  dusty- 
dark  hair ;  bright,  laughing,  hazel  eyes ;  massive,  aquiline  face,  most  massive, 
yet  most  delicate;  of  sallow  brown  complexion,  almost  Indian-looking;  clothes, 
cynically  loose,  free  and  easy;  smokes  infinite  tobacco.  His  voice  is  musically 
metallic  —  fit  for  loud  laughter  and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that  may  lie  between  ; 
speech  and  speculation  free  and  plenteous.  I  do  not  meet,  in  these  late  decades, 
such  company  over  a  pipe.'  —  Letter  to  Emerson,  1847. 

Friends  —  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  Trench,  Thackeray,  Dickens,  Carlyie, 
Browning,  Gladstone. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Times.  —  Tennyson's  family  have  not  yet  authorized  the  publica- 
tion of  any  life  of  the  poet.  Until  this  appears,  we  can  find  a  vade  mecum 
sufficient  for  our  purpose  in  Alfred  Tennyson,  A  Study  of  his  Life  and  Work  by 
Arthur  Waugh  (London,  1893).  Those  to  whom  this  book  is  inaccessible  may 
consult  a  sorry  substitute  in  the  article  on  Tennyson  by  Mrs.  H.  K.  Johnson  in 
Appleton's  Annual  Cyclopcedia  for  i8gj.  Mrs.  Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie  has 
some  interesting  reminiscences  in  Harper's  Magazine  for  December,  i8Sj,  while 
the  ever-faithful  Poole  will  unlock  the  flood-gates  of  periodical  literature. 

Criticism.  —  Tennyson  reflects  so  perfectly  nineteenth  century  thought  and 
emotion,  that  little  help  is  needed  to  get  at  his  meaning.  Yet  the  following 
books  will  be  found  useful  for  illustration : 

Littledale  :  Essays  on  Lord  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King.  This  gives  in 
simple  and  popular  form,  an  account  of  the  historical  sources  of  the  Idylls 
and  an  interpretation  of  such  allegory  as  Tennyson  may  (or  may  not)  have 
intended  to  put  into  them. 

Van  Dyke :  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson  :  An  excellent  exposition  of  Tennyson's 
poetic  development  from  1827  to  1889.  Contains  also  a  Bibliography  that 
separates  the  slag  from  the  gold,  and  a  List  of  Biblical  Quotations  and  Allusions 
Found  in  the  Works  of  Tennyson. 

y.  Churton  Collins :  Illustrations  of  Tennyson.  Traces  Tennyson's  imita- 
tions and  transferences  to  their  sources,  with  the  object  of  illustrating  the 
connection  of  English  Literature  with  the  Literatures  of  Greece,  Rome,  and 
Modern  Italy. 

Bagehot:  Literary  Studies  ;  Vol.11.  Wordsiuorth,  Tennyson  and  Browning ; 
or  Pure,  Ornate  and  Grotesque  Art  in  English  Poetry.  A  most  subtle  and 
delicate  piece  of  criticism  :  within  the  field  to  which  it  confines  itself,  by  far  the 
best  thing  that  has  been  written  on  Tennyson. 


CENONE. 


CEnone  was  the  wife  whom  Paris  deserted  for  Helen.  —  Notice  with  what 
delicate  art,  in  this  poem,  the  landscape  is  set  to  reflect  the  feeling.  This 
landscape-setting  is  a  poetical  device  almost  unknown  to  the  ancients;  Ten- 
nyson has  had  many  imitators,  but  no  equals  in  this  method  of  treating  classi- 
cal subjects. 


(EN  ONE.  153 

I-2I.  Ida.  A  mountain-range  near  Troj.  Clough  writes  in  a 
letter  from  the  Pyrenees,  Sept.  i,  1861  :  '  CEnone,  he  [Tennyson] 
said  was  written  on  the  inspiration  of  the  Pyrenees,  which  stood  for 
Ida.'  topmost  Gargarus  :  a  Latinism,  on  the  model  of  siunmus 

tnons  =  the  top  of  the  mountain.  See  Allen  and  Greenough,  Latin 
Grammar,  §  193.  Gargarus  was  the  highest  peak  of  Ida.  forlorn 
of  Paris:  another  Latinism;  a  kind  of  genitive  of  specification, 
like  integer  vitce  =  upright  in  life.     A.  and  G.,  §  218  (c). 

22-32.  many-fountained  Ida.  '  So  fared  he  [Zeus]  to  many- 
fountained  Ida,  mother  of  wild  beasts,  even  unto  Gargaros,  where 
is  his  demesne  and  fragrant  altar.' — Iliad,    viii,    47-48.  the 

noon-day  quiet  held  the  hill.  '  The    noon-day  quiet  held  the 

hill.'  —  Callimachus,  Lavacrum  Palladis,  72.'  The  lizard,  with 

his  shadow  on  the  stone.  'When,  indeed,  the  very  lizard  is  sleep- 
ing on  the  loose  stones  of  the  wall' — Theocritus,  vii.  22.  Mine 
eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love.  '  Mine  eyes  are  full  of 
tears,  my  heart  of  grief.'  —  2  Henry  vi.  ii.  3.  17. 

33-51.  a  River-God  :  Cebren.  as  yonder  walls  Rose  slowly  to 
a  music  slowly  breathed.  According  to  a  legend  in  Ovid  (Epistulse, 
XV.  179-180)  the  walls  of  Troy  rose  to  the  music  of  Apollo's  lyre. 
Simois  :     a  river  of  the  Troad. 

52-74.  Hesperian  gold.  The  Hesperides  (Daughters  of  the 
West)  guarded  the  golden  apples  which  Ge  (the  Earth)  gave  to 
Here  on  her  wedding.  To  obtain  possession  of  these  apples  was  the 
eleventh  labor  of  Hercules.  See  Tennyson's  poem.  The  Hesper- 
ides. Oread  =  Mountain-nymphs. 

75-88.     For  the  details  of  this  story,  see  CI.  Myths,  §  167. 

89-100.  The  original  of  this  lovely  passage  is  to  be  found  in 
Iliad,  xiv.  347-351:  'And  beneath  them  the  divine  earth  sent 
forth  fi-esh  new  grass,  and  dewy  lotus,  and  crocus,  and  hyacinth, 
thick  and  soft,  that  raised  them  aloft  from  the  ground.  Therein 
they  lay,  and  were  clad  o'er  with  a  fair  golden  cloud,  whence  fell 
drops  of  glittering  dew.' 

101-130.  champaign.  See  note  on  this  word  in  Macaulay's 
Horatius,  line  100. 

131-167.  The  character  of  Pallas,  as  portrayed  here,  is  in  admi- 
rable keeping  with  Homer's  conception  of  her,  in  the  Odyssey,  as 
the  friend  of  Odj'sseus. 

168-190.  Idalian  Aphrodite.  Idalium  or  Idalia  was  a  mountain 
(also  a  city)  in  Cyprus,  sacred  to  Venus.  Paphian.     Paphos  was 

another  city  in  Cyprus  sacred  to  Venus. 

1  For  this  and  for  the  illustration  from  Theocritus,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Churton 
Collins'  book. 


154  NOTES    TO    TENNYSON. 

191-225.  plume  (205);  trembling.  Notice  the  picture  in  this 
first  word,  and  the  accuracy  of  observation  in  the  second.  The 

Abominable  :    tlie  goddess  Eris  (Discord). 

226-264.  Cassandra :  one  of  the  daughters  of  Priam.  Apollo 
gave  her  the  gift-  of  prophecy,  but  with  it  the  penalty  that  her 
prophecies  should  never  be  believed. 

In  his  old  age  Tennyson  continued  this  subject  in  his  Death  0/  CEno?ie.  The 
sequel  is  not  worthy  of  the  original :  QSnone  is  depicted  as  embittered  and  re- 
vengeful ;  she  loses  that  sweet  womanliness  and  despairing  tenderness  that  make 
her  so  pathetic  a  figure  in  the  first  poem. 

THE    MILLER'S    DAUGHTER. 

Tennyson  is  remarkable  for  the  curious  felicity  with  which  he  reproduces  the 
characteristics  of  other  poets,  at  the  same  time  adding  something  hard  to  define, 
yet  unmistakably  his  own.  In  CEnone  we  have  the  sensuousness  and  the  color- 
ing of  Keats;  in  The  Miller's  Daughter,  ih^  thoroughly  English  tone  and  the 
deep  joy  in  domestic  affection  that  appear  so  often  in  Wordsworth,  —  combined 
with  a  lilt  and  melody  that  Wordsworth  seldom  attained  to. 

The  lyric  '  It  is  the  miller's  daughter'  (169),  is  closely  imitated  from  the  clos- 
ing octette  of  Ronsard's  Odes,  iv.  26. 

[Literal  Translation.] 
Je  voudrois  estre  le  riban  I  would  be  the  ribbon 

Qui  serre  ta  belle  poitrine;  That  presses  thy  beautiful  breast; 

Je  voudrois  estre  le  carquan  I  would  be  the  necklace 

Qui  orne  ta  gorge  yvorine;  That  graces  thy  ivory  throat; 

Je  voudrois  estre  tout  autour  I  ^vould  be  indeed 

Le  coral  qui  tes  levres  touche,  The  coral  [coralline  rouge]  that  touches 

Afin  de  baiser,  nuict  et  jour,  thy  lips 

Tes  belles  levres  et  ta  bouche.  That  I  might  kiss,  night  and  day, 

Thy  beautiful  lips  and  thy  mouth. 

Ronsard.in  his  turn,  took  the  thought  from  a  fragment  in  the  Pseudo-Anacreon, 
thus  rendered  by  Mr.  Collins :  '  Would  I  were  a  mirror,  that  thou  mightest  be 
ever  gazing  at  me ;  would  that  I  were  a  tunic,  that  thou  mightest  always  wear 
me ;  and  thy  breast  band ;  and  would  I  were  a  sandal ;  only  trample  me  with 
thy  feet.'  See  note  on  Burns'  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  39-54.  The  third  stanza 
of  Tennyson's  song  also  contains  suggestion  of  the  sextet  in  Keats'  Last  Sonnet. 

THE    PASSING    OF   ARTHUR. 

The  greater  part  of  this  poem  (lines  170-440)  was  published  in  1842,  under 
the  title  oi  Morte  D' Arthur.  Lines  1-169  and  441-469  were  added  many  years 
later  to  connect  this  Idyll  with  Guinevere  and  to  frame  into  one  picture  the 
scattered  mosaics  which  the  author  had  cut  from  various  materials.  When  read 
in  the  following  order  —  The  Coining  0/  Arthur,  Gareth  and  Lynette,  The  Mar- 
riage of  Geraint,  Geraint  and  Enid,  Daini  and  Dalan,  Merlin  and  Vivien, 
Lancelot  and  Elaine,  The  Holy  Grail,  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,  The.  Last  Tourna- 
ment, Guinevere,  The  Passing  of  Arthur  —  the  Idylls  are  seen  to  constitute  a 


THE    PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  155 

kind  of  Epic  in  twelve  books, —  an  Epic  deficient,  certainly,  in  Unity  of  Action, 
but  not  deficient  in  Spiritual  Unity.  In  his  Epilogue  to  the  Idylls  Tennyson 
calls  his  work 

this  old  imperfect  tale 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war  with  Soul 
Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose  name,  a  ghost 
Streams  like  a  Cloud,  man-shaped,  from  mountain  peak, 
And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech  still ;  — 

Acting  on  the  hint  in  these  lines,  some  commentators  have  constructed  elabo- 
rate interpretations  of  the  Idylls  as  Allegories.  While  allegorical  passages  un- 
doubtedly occur  in  the  Idylls,  any  attempt  to  interpret  them  throughout  as  an 
allegory  breaks  down  at  vital  points.  Nor  is  such  an  interpretation  either  neces- 
sary or  desirable :  it  weakens  the  pathetic  and  purifying  effect  which  the  Idylls 
convey  when  viewed  in  their  proper  light  —  as  a  work  of  Art. 

1-8.  their  march  to  westward.  Throughotit  this  poem  Tennyson 
varies  the  incidents  onlj'  slightly  from  those  in  Malory's  Morte 
D'Arthur,  Book  xxi.  Cap.  3-5. 

g-28.  These  lines  are  a  late  addition  of  the  poet's.  Do  they,  in 
this  place,  add  anything  to  the  effect  of  the  poem.? 

29-49.  Gawain :  according  to  Malory  (xxi.  2)  the  nephew  of 
King  Arthur  and,  after  Launcelot,  his  favorite  knight.  Tennyson 
characterizes  him  differently  in  Launcelot  and  Elaine,  542-548 : 

a  Prince 
In  the  mid-night  and  flourish  of  his  May 
Gawain,  surnamed  the  courteous,  fair  and  strong 
And  after  Launcelot,  Tristram  and  Geraint 
And  Lamorack  a  good  knight,  but  therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house 
Nor  o'ten  loyal  to  his  word. 

like    wild    birds    that   change    Their  season    in    the    night.     From 

Dante's  Inferno,  v.  40-49. 

And  as  the  wings  of  starlings  bear  them  on 

In  the  cold  season  in  large  band  and  full, 

So  doth  that  blast  the  spirits  maledict; 
It  hither,  thither,  downward,  upward  drives  them; 

No  hope  doth  comfort  them  for  evermore, 

Not  of  repose,  but  even  of  lesser  pain. 
And  as  the  cranes  go  chanting  forth  their  lays, 

Making  in  air  a  long  line  of  Themselves, 

So  saw  I  coming,  uttering  lamentations, 
Shadows  borne  onward  by  the  aforesaid  stress. 

(Longfellow.) 


156  NOTES    TO    TENNYSON. 

50-64.  Modred.  Malory  i-epresents  him  as  the  King's  son.  For 
his  character  in  the  Idylls,  see  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  200-202  ; 
Gareth  and  Lynette,  28-31,  409;  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,  last  line;  The 
Last  Tcurnament,  166;   Guinevere, /<7>\-./w. 

65-78.  The  legendary  wars  here  referred  to  are  related  in  Malory, 
Books  i.  and  v.  See  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  last  16  lines.  Almes- 
bury;  in  Wiltshire.     The  reference  is,  of  course,  to  Guinevere. 

79-1  zj.  Lyonesse.  A  mythical  country,  west  of  Cornwall.  The 
Scilly  Islands  are  doubtless  the  origin  of  this  myth.  Malory  says 
the  battle  took  place  '  upon  a  down  beside  Salisbury  and  not  far 
from  the  sea-side,'  and  declares,  '  Never  was  there  seen  a  more 
dolefuller  battle  in  no  Christian  land.' 

118-169.  Excalibur  (168).  For  the  description  of  this  famous 
weapon,  see  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  i^^=^hif->     ^  ^    "i  —    "^1    'O 

170-205.  Camelot :  probably  Qiieen-Camel  in  Somersetshire, 
but  the  Arthurian  geography  is  as  uncertain  as  the  Odyssean.  For 
a  description  of  the  Hall  at  Camelot,  see  The  Holy  Grail,  225-257. 
Merlin.     See  the  Coming  of  Arthur  and  Merlin  and  Vivien. 

206-432.  In  this  pathetic  episode,  Tennyson  follows  Malory 
closely,  yet  adds  little  touches  of  his  own  that  light  up  the  dim 
narrative  of  the  old  knight  as  the  jewels  lit  up  the  haft  of  Excalibur. 
What  these  touches  are,  will  best  be  seen  by  letting  Malory  speak 
for  himself :  he  is  no  mean  story-teller,  in  his  own  quaint  way. 

But  my  time  hieth  fast,  said  the  king.  Therefore,  said  Arthur,  take  thou 
Excalibur,  my  good  sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder  water  side,  and  when  thou 
comest  there,  I  charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  that  water,  and  come  again, 
and  tell  me  what  thou  ihere  seest.  My  lord,  said  Bedivere,  your  command- 
ment shall  be  done,  and  lightly  bring  you  word  again.  So  Sir  Bedivere  depart- 
ed, and  by  the  way  he  beheld  that  noble  sword,  that  the  pommel  and  haft  were 
all  of  precious  stones,  and  then  he  said  to  himself.  If  I  throw  this  rich  sword 
in  the  water,  thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but  harm  and  loss.  And  then  Sir 
Bedivere  hid  Excalibur  under  a  tree.  And  as  soon  as  he  might  he  came  again 
unto  the  king,  and  said  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the  sword 
into  the  water.  What  sawest  thou  there?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw 
nothing  but  waves  and  winds.  That  is  untruly  said  of  thee,  said  the  king; 
therefore  go  thou  lightly  again,  and  do  my  command  as  thou  art  to  me  lief  and 
dear,  spare  not,  but  throw  it  in.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  returned  again,  and  took 
the  sword  in  his  hand ;  and  then  him  thought  sin  and  shame  to  throw  away 
that  noble  sword;  and  so  eft  he  hid  the  sword,  and  returned  again,  and  told  to 
the  king  that  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment.  What 
saw  thou  there?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  waters  wap 
and  the  waves  wan.  Ah  traitor,  untrue,  said  king  Arthur,  now  hast  thou  be- 
trayed me  twice.  Who  would  have  wend  that  Ihou  that  hast  been  to  me  so  lief 
and  dear,  and  thou  art  named  a  noble  knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the 
riches  of  the  sword.     But  now  go  again  lightly,  for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me 


THE    PASSING    OF  ARTHUR.  157 

in  great  jeopardy  of  my  life,  for  I  have  talcen  cold.  And  but  if  tiiou  do  now  as 
I  bid  thee,  if  ever  I  may  see  thee,  I  shall  slay  thee  with  mine  own  hands,  for  thou 
wouldst  for  my  rich  sword  see  me  dead.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and 
went  to  the  sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  went  to  the  water  side,  and  there 
he  bound  the  girdle  about  the  hilts,  and  then  he  threw  the  sword  as  far  into  the 
water  as  he  might,  and  there  came  an  arm  and  an  hand  above  the  water,  and 
met  it,  and  caught  it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice  and  brandished,  and  then  vanished 
away  the  hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir  Bedivere  came  again  to  the 
king,  and  told  him  what  he  saw.  Alas,  said  the  king,  help  me  hence,  for  I  dread 
me  I  have  tarried  over  long.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  king  upon  his  back, 
and  so  went  with  him  to  the  water  side.  And  when  they  were  at  the  water  side, 
even  fast  by  the  bank  hoved  a  little  barge,  with  many  fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among 
them  all  was  a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and  all  they  wept  and 
shrieked  when  they  saw  king  Arthur.  Now  put  me  into  the  barge,  said  the 
king :  and  so  he  did  softly.  And  there  received  him  three  queens  with  great 
mourning,  and  so  they  set  him  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  king  Arthur  laid 
his  head,  and  then  that  queen  said.  Ah,  dear  brother,  why  have  ye  tarried  so 
long  from  me  ?  Alas,  this  wound  on  your  head  hath  caught  over  much  cold. 
And  so  then  they  rowed  from  the  land ;  and  Sir  Bedivere  beheld  all  those  ladies 
go  from  him.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried.  Ah,  my  lord  Arthur,  what  shall  become 
of  me  now  ye  go  from  me,  and  leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  enemies. 
Comfort  thyself,  said  the  king,  and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayest,  for  in  me  is  no 
trust  for  to  trust  in.  For  I  will  into  the  vale  of  Avilion,  to  heal  me  of  my  griev- 
ous wound.     And  if  thou  hear  never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul. 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind  (228).  This  is  line  385 
of  Aeneid  iv.  : 

Atque  animum  nunc  hue  celerem,  nunc  dividit  illuc. 

Notice  the  onomatopoetic  effect  in  238-239  and  in  354-358.  Three 
Queens  (366)  :  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity  (.?).  But  see  lines  452-456. 
The  holy  Elders  (401).     See  Matthew  ii.  1-12.  Bound  by  gold 

chains  about  the  feet  of  God  (423).  See  note  on  Dryden'c  Charac- 
ter of  a  Good  Parson,  14-24. 

433-469.  the  weird  rime.  See  The  Coming  of  Arthur  "52-366. 
yon  dark  Queens.     See  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  327-337. 

The  line  of  hope,  with  which  Tennyson  closes  his  poem,  is  worthy  the  noble 
character  he  has  depicted.  What  matter  if  King  Arthur  is  an  anachronism? 
So  is  Odysseus,  so  is  Satan  in  Paradise  Lost,  so  is  Vergil  in  the  Divine  Comedy 
—  King  Arthur  interests  us  because  he  is  a  man,  tried  at  all  points  like  unto  our- 
selves, struggling  with  Sense  at  war  with  Soul,  beaten  apparently  in  the  conflict 
but  leaving  behind  an  imperishable  Ideal  around  which  future  ages  shall  build 
a  purer  and  a  better  Reality. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 


158  NOTES    TO    TENNYSON. 


THE    SPLENDOR   FALLS. 

This  exquisite  song  comes  between  the  third  and  fourth  parts  of  The  Princess, 
and  is  one  of  the  polished  gems  that  redeem  from  mediocrity  that  curious  med- 
ley.—  Notice  the  details  of  the  poet's  art :  The  first  stanza  carries  the  mind  back 
into  the  historic  past ;  a  picture  rises  before  us  of  Chivalry,  with  its  blazonry  of  love 
and  glory ;  we  see  the  mediaeval  castle,  the  mountains  in  the  distance,  with  the  lake 
sleeping  at  their  feet  and  the  white  cataract  smitten  to  gold  by  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun.  The  second  stanza  completely  etherializes  this  picture ;  transfers 
it  to  the  Realm  of  Faerie.  The  third  stanza  carries  the  mind  forward,  suggesting 
Love,  Immortality,  Eternity. — The  charm  added  to  the  whole  by  the  refrain 
of  the  bugle-notes,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  analyze. 

HOME   THEY   BROUGHT   HER   WARRIOR   DEAD. 

This  song  comes  between  the  fifth  and  sixth  parts  of  The  Princess.  It  is  a 
lyrical  rendering  of  an  incident  in  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  i.  9. 

In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier 

The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 
And  many  a  flower,  and  many  a  tear, 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent: 
But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 

The  Ladye  dropp'd  nor  flower  nor  tear! 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  woe ; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan. 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee  — 
'And  if  I  live  to  be  a  man. 

My  father's  deatn  revenged  shall  be ! ' 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 

To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam  died  in  1833  and  was  buried  in  Clevedon  Churchyard, 
on  the  coast  of  Somerset.  This  lyric  appeared  in  the  first  collection  of  poems 
that  Tennyson  published  after  his  friend's  death.  The  sentiment,  the  imagery 
and  the  date  of  publication  would  all  seem  to  point  to  Clevedon  as  the  source  of 
this  lyric's  inspiration  :  as  to  its  actual  composition,  — '  It  was  made,'  said  Tenny- 
son, '  in  a  Lincolnshire  lane  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.' 

THE    BROOK. 

'  On  the  north  [of  Somersby  Rectory]  a  straggling  road  winds  up  the  steep 
hill  towards  the  summit  of  the  wold,  while  on  the  south  a  pebbly  brook  bubbles 
along  close  to  the  edge  of  the  garden.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of  scenery  one  asso- 
ciates with  the  fen-country  :  instead  of  dreary  waters  and  low- lying  levels,  the 


CROSSING    THE    BAR.  159 


landscape  sweeps  up  into  hills  and  drops  into  valleys,  full  of  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  country  life,  and  rich  in  flowery  hollows  and  patches  of  tangled 
meadow-land.  It  requires  no  strain  of  imagination  to  catch  the  spirit  of  Tenny- 
son's song  here,  where  the  little  brook  of  his  poem  dances  along  through  thd 
heart  of  the  country,  chattering  as  it  goes.' —  Waugh's  Tennyson,  Cap.  i. 

CROSSING    THE    BAR. 

This  poem  was  published  in  1889  when  Tennyson  was  in  his  eighty-first  year. 
It  stands  last  in  the  volume  entitled  Demeter  and  Other  Poems.  Tennyson's 
friend,  Arthur  Waugh,  has  spoken  a  word  thereon  to  which  it  would  be  hard  to 
add  anything  of  value :  '  And  last,  yet  incomparably  first  stands  that  perfect 
poem  which  is  above  criticism  —  composed  (it  is  said)  during  the  poet's  passage 
across  the  Solent  —  '  Crossing  the  Bar."  It  has  been  translated  into  Greek  and 
Latin,  and  set  to  music ;  but  no  alien  note  was  needed  to  complete  the  dignified 
perfection  of  its  harmony.  There  is  no  more  beautiful  utterance  in  all  the  range 
of  English  verse." 


TENNYSON. 
In  Luceni  Transltus.     Oct.  6,  i8g3. 

From  the  silent  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendors  of  the  moon, 
To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven  and  the  light  more  clear  than  noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music  till  it  was  with  God  in  tune. 

Brother  of  the  greatest  poets  —  true  to  nature,  true  to  art. 

Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  —  uplifter  of  the  human  heart. 

Who  shall  help  us  with  high  music,  who  shall  sing  if  thou  depart  ? 

Silence  here,  for  love  is  silent,  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail ; 
Silence  here,  for  grief  is  voiceless  when  the  mighty  poets  fail; 
Silence  here,  —  but  far  above  us,  many  voices  crying,  HailI 

(Henry  van  Dyke.) 


160         SOME    ATTEMPTS    TO    DEFINE    POETRY. 


SOME   ATTEMPTS   TO   DEFINE    POETRY. 

I.  Poetry  in  general  seems  to  have  originated  from  two  causes, 
both  natural  ones;  it  is  innate  in  men  from  childhood  (i)  to  imitate 

—  and  herein  we  differ  from  other  animals,  in  that  we  are  the  most 
imitative  and  acquire  our  first  knowledge  through  imitation  —  and 
(2)  to  delight  in  imitations.  Poetry  is  the  province  either  of  a  man 
that  is  clever  or  of  one  who  is  in  an  enthusiasm  akin  to  madness.  — 
Aristotle;  Poetics:  iv.  2  and  xvii.  j. 

II.  To  which  [Logic  and  Rhetoric]  poetry  would  be  made  sub- 
sequent, or  indeed  rather  precedent,  as  being  less  subtile  and  fine, 
but  more  simple,  sensuous  and  passionate.  I  mean  not  here  the 
prosody  of  a  verse,  which  they  could  not  but  have  hit  on  before 
among  the  rudiments  of  grammar ;  but  that  sublime  art  which  in 
Aristotle's  Poetics,  in  Horace  .  .  .  and  others,  teaches  us  what 
the  laws  are  of  a  true  epic  poem,  what  of  a  dramatic,  what  of  a 
lyric,  what  decorum  is,  which  is  the  grand  masterpiece  to  observe. 

—  Milton  ;   On  Education. 

III.  A  Poem  is  that  species  of  composition,  which  is  opposed  to 
works  of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object  pleasure, 
not  truth  ;  and  from  all  other  species  —  (having  t/iis  object  in  com- 
mon with  it)  —  it  is  discriminated  by  proposing  to  itself  such  de- 
light from  the  -whole  as  is  compatible  with  a  distinct  gratification 
from  each  component  ^ar/. —  Coleridge;  Biografhia  Literaria, 
Cap.  xiv. 

IV.  All  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  o^  powerful 
feeling.  —  Wordsworth  ;  Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads. 

V.  Poetry  is  the  record'of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the 
happiest  and  best  minds.  —  Shelley  ;  Defense  of  Poetry. 

VI.  Poetry  is  the  suggestion,  by  the  imagination,  of  noble 
grounds  for  the  noble  emotions.  — Ruskiti ;  Modern  Painters :  Part 
iv.   Cap.   i,  §  I  J. 

VII.  It  is  important,  tnerefore,  to  hold  fast  to  this  :  that  poetry 
is  at  bottom  a  criticism  of  life;  that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  lies  in 
his  powerful  and  beautiful  application  of  ideas  to  life,  —  to  the 
question  :   How  to  live.  — Matthexv  Arnold;  Essay  on  Wordsworth. 

VIII.  Poetry  is  simply  the  most  delightful  and  perfect  form  of 
utterance  that  human  w'ords  can  reach.  Its  rhythm  and  measure, 
elevated  to  a  regularity,  certainty,  and  force  vei-y  different  from  that 
of  the  rhythm  and  measure  which  can  pervade  prose,  are  a  part  of 
its  perfection.  —  Matthew  Arnold;   The  French  Play  in  London. 

IX.  Poetry,  which  is  a  glorified  representation  of  all  that  is  seen, 
felt,    thought,   or  done,    by   man,    perforce   includes   Religion    and 


SOME  ATTEMPTS    TO  DEFINE  POETRY.  161 

Philosophy  among  the  materials  reflected  in  its  magic  mirror.  But 
it  has  no  mission  to  replace  them ;  its  function  being  not  to  super- 
sede, but  to  ti^ansfigure. — Alfred  Austin  l  On  the  Position  and 
Prospects  of  Poetry  (Preface  to  the  Human  Tragedy). 

X.  By  poetry  I  mean  the  art  of  producing  pleasure  by  the  just 
expression  of  imaginative  thought  and  feeling  in  metrical  lan- 
guage. —  Courthope  I  The  Liberal  Alovement  in  English  Literature, 
Essay  i. 


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1:39^$ — tcr  Tennyson" 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


000  297  873 


PR 

1175 
S98f 
1894 


